Keep the Suit, Lose the Nickname
by Kuria Dalmatia
Summary: What if Spencer Reid was the unit chief of the BAU and Aaron Hotchner joined the team after the Boston bombings that lead to Gideon's leave of absence? - AU! Hotch/Reid slash. Books 1 & 2 plus interlude chapters. Includes retelling of several S1 episodes & Book 2 is the retelling of "The Fisher King". COMPLETE.
1. Introduction, Comments & Disclaimers

_**Keep the Suit, Lose the Nickname**  
>A Criminal Minds AU<em>

**Author:** Kuria Dalmatia  
>'<strong>Verse:<strong> Reid's The Chief!  
><strong>Rating: <strong>Each chapter is individually rated, but overall, FRM/R**  
>Warnings:<strong> Profanity, sexual situations, physical and sexual violence, adult content, case discussion**  
>CharactersPairing:** Hotch/Reid, Season 1's BAU

**Summary:** What if Spencer Reid was the unit chief of the BAU and Aaron Hotchner joined the team after the Boston bombings that lead to Gideon's leave of absence? As Hotchner adjusts to his new role in the elite profiling unit, he faces challenges not only from UnSubs but from Gideon, who doesn't approve of the new Hot Shot of the unit. Oh, and the little matter of Hotch having a crush on Reid …

**ARCHIVING:** my LJ and FFNet account... anyone else? Please ask first.

April 2011. August 2011

**COMMENTS:** Unbeated. Will this AU work? Maybe. It will have its flaws and characters may seem OOC. I also never thought I would have the courage to post this, because it's all over the place and then some. This is for you, CMAli, because you said over lunch, "Why not post it?"

It's a WIP that is now edging towards the 47k word mark and spanning into mid-S2.

Inspired by a prompt from Ansera's CMIV Kink Meme: "AU: A younger and eager Hotch has a thing for his unit Chief Spencer Reid. bottom!Reid and somewhat inexperienced (with men) Hotch!"

This so totally got out of hand or out of mind. Or something, because it's another one of those 'evolution of relationships' things. And it became a freaking monster.

Feedback always welcome.

DISCLAIMER: The Mark Gordon Company, ABC Studios and CBS Paramount Network Television own Criminal Minds. Salut! I just took them out to play and I promise put them back when I'm done. I'm not making any profit just trying to get these images out of my head.

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**AUTHOR'S NOTES REGARDING THE TIMELINE**

In this AU, Hotch is about the same age as Morgan. While he worked in the prosecutor's office, it was a very short stint before he went on to the FBI. He didn't run the Seattle field office like he did in canon nor did he run security for Ambassador Prentiss.

Reid is in his early- to mid-forties, and as spent the last fifteen or so years in the BAU. Gideon did bring him in to the BAU but (as it stands right now), Reid wasn't directly recruited out of college.


	2. Book 1, Chapter 1: Meeting in Seattle

**Title: **Keep the Suit, Lose the Nickname

**Author:** Kuria Dalmatia

**Characters/Pairing:** Hotch/Reid, Season 1's BAU

**Summary:** It was difficult for Aaron Hotchner to take Spencer Reid seriously as the chief of such an elite unit, especially the way Greenaway took charge.

**COMMENTS:** See Intro for additional comments, archiving info and disclaimers.

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On his second day of high school, Aaron Hotchner was bestowed the nickname "Hot Shot." It was meant to be derogatory, but Hotchner embraced it and made it his own so much that it carried over to his college years. It was only natural that it stuck with him during law school, his stint as a prosecutor, his FBI Academy training and subsequent posting to the FBI's Seattle field office.

Hotchner. Hot Shot. It wasn't that far of a stretch. He knew it was on the obnoxious side (not to mention arrogant), but his abilities as a student, lawyer and now FBI field agent backed up the nickname. He refused to be embarrassed about it. Well ... until two members of the BAU showed up for a consult.

Tony Schadek, the head of the field office, did the introductions; Schadek jerked a thumb in Hotchner's direction and said "just call this guy Hot Shot" like he always did. BAU Unit Chief SSA Doctor Spencer Reid met Hotchner's eyes but didn't extend a hand. The older agent nodded slightly, but looked nonplussed, which was an unusual reaction. Usually, veteran agents (especially those in position of command) made some comment about his nickname followed some kind of challenge for Hotchner to back it up.

It was Reid's partner, Greenaway, who smirked and said, "Hot Shot, huh?" as she shook his hand.

It was the first time in a very long time that Hotchner was embarrassed about the moniker. He wanted to dismiss the feeling, but found that he couldn't. Not with the way Reid quietly observed the exchange. Not with the way that Reid's left eyebrow hitched just a little. Not with the way the man rocked slightly back on his heels.

Not with how badly Hotchner wanted to impress the BAU.

The profiling bug had bit him while still in law school, specifically during his internship at the local prosecutor's office. SSA David Rossi had been an expert witness for them and had spent a few days in the office going over the details of the profile which was vital to the case. Hotchner was charged with taking notes; listening to Rossi's explanation and rationale was enthralling and it was the first time Hotchner questioned his own career path. It was why he only spent a few years at the prosecutor's office before applying to the FBI.

Currently he was finishing up the master's in psychology that the BAU required as he paid his dues in the Seattle field office.

And when Hotchner learned that the BAU had been called in for a consult, he found out who was being sent and quickly read up on them. He knew about Reid's mind-blowing accomplishments both academically and as an agent. He was familiar with Greenaway's meteoric rise from Miami sex crimes to the coveted posting in the BAU. Hotchner went so far as to read a few of Reid's published articles in peer-reviewed journals, although the mathematic side of it made Hotchner's head spin.

But meeting Reid in person? It was kind of difficult to take him seriously as a unit chief. The man dressed like a stereotypical, geeky retro professor, complete with mismatched socks and Chuck Taylors. Reid's hair was long, tucked behind his ears with the occasional wayward lock falling into his eyes whenever he leaned over. He certainly didn't fit with the image the head of an elite unit. No. Reid looked more like a former fashion model with his high cheekbones and slender build, a former model that just couldn't dress well.

Then there was Reid's approach to the consult, allowing Greenaway run point as he sat back and poured over maps, reports, and photos. In Hotchner's opinion, a unit chief should lead, not follow. A unit chief should be the focus, not hanging out in the periphery.

No wonder most of the field office dismissed Reid as an authority, describing him as "pussy-whipped" because Greenaway so damn dominating. Even when they gave the profile, Greenaway led the briefing, only pausing when Reid piped in with more thorough explanations of piquerism and hebefiles, complete with references to other serial killers.

Once the Seattle agents and the local PD had the profile, Hotchner's team was put on stand-by thanks to a request by Reid, citing the UnSub's recent escalation. Unfortunately, this didn't leave much time for Hotchner to venture over to where Reid and Greenaway were holed up. It didn't give him the opportunity to properly introduce himself, to express his interest in profiling, and to do a little self-promotion.

Hotchner knew the politics of the Bureau. He knew how to get noticed. It was how he made it to SWAT leader in such a short time. He was, after all, called Hot Shot for a reason.

Maybe that was why Reid had SWAT put on alert; Reid had guessed Hotchner's intentions and just didn't want to deal with it. It was an understandable feeling. Hotchner found himself occasionally in that position in his own leadership role.

But then their UnSub panicked because the locals did not heed the BAU's warning about psychological triggers. Since Hotchner's team was already on stand-by, they were ready to go the moment the call came in.

It was how Hotchner found himself shoulder-to-shoulder with Greenaway, watching as Reid walked into the day care center without a weapon or Kevlar and listening to the unit chief begin a dialogue with the highly unstable UnSub.

"Please tell me he's carrying a backup," Hotchner muttered as he thought of his own Glock strapped to his ankle. They knew the UnSub had at least semi-automatic rifle and a handgun despite the preference for a Bowie knife for committing the murders.

"It's not all about guns, Hot Shot," Greenaway snorted as she clipped Reid's holster to her belt. "The most effective weapon we have is a profile." At his dubious look—yes, he understood the value of a profile, but there were sometimes (such as this) that one needed a goddamned firearm—she added, "Just listen and learn."

So Hotchner did.

He listened to Reid's voice, the easy cadence and the empathy that warmed his words. The control. The masterful phrasing which was non-threatening yet authoritative.

"If you harm the children," Reid explained with the casualness of a close friend talking to another, "then that will be all that you're known for. They'll call you the Genesee Daycare Killer. They'll focus on the guns you have. But that's not who you are. That's not what you want. You want people to understand just who you are. You want recognition. You want the prestige, but with all your accomplishments … do you really want it to be for something as mundane as _this_?"

The elements from the profile clicked in and Hotchner realized just how much Reid had incorporated it into his dialogue with UnSub.

It was stunning.

Six minutes later, all ten of the children and their caretakers came running out of the building.

Just as Hotchner was about to give the order for his team to take up new positions, Reid made some esoteric comment that caused Greenaway to grab Hotchner's forearm. "Tell your men to hold position," she stated and met his gaze, "and tell them to hold their fire."

Hotchner almost ignored her because what she was asking was a deviation from protocol. He had an unarmed federal agent in a volatile situation. His team didn't have a line-of-sight into the day care, one that they needed in case the UnSub decided to, well, blow Reid's brains out. However, there was something in Greenaway's tone combined with what he heard Reid telling the UnSub that made him decide to go with Reid's request.

Hotchner relayed it to his own team, ignoring the "you gotta be kidding me" chorusing through his earpiece. He amped up his vocal authority as he snapped, "Hold your position!" The murmuring stopped, but Hotchner knew they all thought he was crazy. 

What happened next thoroughly blew Hotchner's mind. Their UnSub confessed to the seven murders in a manner even the sloppiest of prosecutors couldn't screw up. Names. Dates. Details that hadn't been released to the press. All done without coercion. All done with the UnSub knowing he was talking to a FBI agent.

Once the UnSub was finished, Reid mentioned that the press was waiting outside and asked if it would be okay for them to leave the daycare, tacking on: "They're eager to see you." A minute later, Reid emerged from the daycare center with the UnSub in cuffs.

"What did I tell you?" Greenaway smirked and then sauntered over to where Reid stood.

As Hotchner finished securing the scene with his team and recovering the UnSub's weapons, his brain caught up with what had transpired. He realized the only reason their UnSub—Ty Brantley—had even agreed to talk to the FBI was because he had completely misjudged Reid. Brantley had seen what Reid had wanted him to see: a non-threatening, "anything-but-an-Alpha" male.

When Hotchner approached the chief, who was now standing alone near the SUV he'd arrived to the scene in, he could see the quiet authority and command that the man exuded. Reid's confidence was clear in the set of his shoulders and the jut of his chin. He wasn't a traditional-looking FBI agent, and he used every bit of it to his advantage.

_His greatest weapon is the profile_, Hotchner recalled Greenaway's words.

It only made his desire to join the BAU even greater.

Which was why he probably sounded like a complete fanboy as he said, "The way you used the profile to get Brantley to confess was brilliant."

Reid nodded a little, almost absently. "It's a negotiating tactic."

"A negotiating tactic?" Hotchner couldn't help but laugh. "You get the guy to confess to the crimes without coercion. A confession that will almost be impossible to get thrown out of court." He shook his head. "You're a prosecutor's wet dream."

That earned a warm smile and a twinkle in Reid's eyes. "Didn't you used to be a prosecutor?"

The fact that Reid knew this about him made Hotchner grin and say, "Yes, I was," before he realized just what he'd implied about himself. He could feel the blush burning his cheeks.

Reid favored him with an amused grin before opening the SUV's door. "See you at the station."

"Yes, sir," Hotchner automatically replied. _Way to impress the unit chief, Hot Shot_, he scolded himself. _He thinks you're an idiot_.

#####


	3. Book 1, Chapter 2: Science Friday

**Title: **Keep the Suit, Lose the Nickname

**Author:** Kuria Dalmatia

**Characters/Pairing:** Hotch/Reid, Season 1's BAU

**Summary:** Post-case dinners with his team was something that Hotchner initiated. It was only polite to extend the invitation to Reid and Greenaway.

**COMMENTS:** See Intro for additional comments, archiving info and disclaimers.

#####

Post-case dinners with his team was something that Hotchner initiated when he was promoted to SWAT leader. It was only polite to extend the invitation to Reid and Greenaway, who were taking the red eye back to Quantico. It was how Hotchner, his SWAT team, a few agents from the field office, and the two profilers ended up at a sports bar near Sea-Tac.

Greenaway seemed to fit right in, the earlier hostility from the other agents sluiced away by a few shared pitchers of beer and a successful case. It didn't hurt that Greenaway passionately hated the Yankees—who just happened to be playing against the Mariners—which earned the adoration of the two native Bostonians on Hotchner's team.

Reid, however, kept a polite distance from the rowdy group. At first, Hotchner was leery of joining the unit chief, especially after his 'wet dream' comment. Yet manners drilled into him as a young man, especially those about being a good host, prompted him to pick up his iced tea, walk over to Reid's table, and ask if he could join him.

It had nothing to do with the desire to have some one-on-one face time with the man in charge of the unit he wanted to work for.

Okay. It had _something_ to do with it.

The unit chief nodded and Hotchner took a seat, making sure he could keep an eye on his team. When he turned to initiate a conversation with Reid, he noticed how the other agent was assessing him again, just like he had when Schadek introduced Hotchner as Hot Shot. It was almost annoying.

It was strangely flattering.

"Rossi used to call it 'counting chicks,'" Reid commended as he jutted his chin towards Hotchner's group. "Although, I never quite understood the context of the phrase. Is it a derivative of, 'Don't count your chickens before they're hatched'?" He tapped his finger against his chin. "Did you know that the origins of that phrase can be traced back to the Aesop Fable 'The Milkmaid and Her Pail' circa 570 BC? Although some erroneously attribute it to Thomas Howell, who published the phrase in _New Sonnets and Pretty Pamphlets_ in 1570. His was actually the first time the phrase appears in print."

Baffled, Hotchner asked, "Ah, sir?"

"Before you sat down, you made sure you knew where the members of your team were," Reid clarified. "Counting chicks."

Again, there was a flush of embarrassment that began in his belly; it was the first time anyone had ever called Hotchner on that particular behavior. Fighting his own discomfort, he focused on Reid's explanation about the phrase's origins. "Sir, I don't think 'counting chicks' has anything to do with an Aesop fable."

The unit chief frowned slightly, as if contemplating what he had said, and then laughed lightly. "I suppose you're right." He picked up his brandy (an odd choice for a sports bar, definitely) and took a slow sip. "Sweetened or unsweetened?"

Hotchner stared. "Sir?"

"Your tea. Sweet tea or unsweetened?" Reid asked as he set his own glass down. "Your accent places you somewhere in southern Virginia, maybe the Carolinas, although you've worked diligently to suppress it." He pointed to Hotchner's tea. "When traveling in the South, one must specifically request unsweetened iced tea since most restaurants typically serve sweet tea by default. So, sweetened or unsweetened tea?" He tilted his head a little. "Or is that too personal of a question to ask?"

_It's too bizarre of a question to ask_, Hotchner thought as he struggled to keep the 'are you batshit crazy or what?' look off his face. The comment about his accent _did_ make him uncomfortable. It was true; Hotchner worked hard to get rid of that Southern twang and people usually didn't know he was originally from Virginia unless he told them. The fact that Reid picked upon it was unnerving.

_He's the unit chief of the BAU_, Hotchner reminded himself. _Of course he's that good. You witnessed it earlier today, for Christ's sake_. A chill ran up his spine. _You just weren't expecting him to do it to you._

Hotchner cleared his throat, a pathetic cover for his internalizing, before he answered, "Unsweetened with two packets of Splenda if it's been brewed. I don't drink the fountain version."

Reid's grin was warm. "I prefer Sugar in the Raw if I can get it," he admitted as if he were sharing some great secret. "Although from a solubility standpoint, Splenda may be a better choice. Hmmm … Perhaps we should do an experiment!" He picked up the plastic container that held the packets of sweetener. "Here we are … Splenda, Sweet'n'Low, Equal and refined cane sugar." He pulled out two of each kind and then flagged down the waitress. "May we have four glasses of unsweetened iced tea and four teaspoons, please?"

The waitress nodded and disappeared. Hotchner sat there, stunned. He hoped to talk shop. To perhaps even discuss his Master's thesis a little depending on the flow of the conversation. To glean some insight on what would give him an edge to join the BAU. Not to … not to do a science experiment right there at their table with the BAU unit chief.

"Sir …"Hotchner began, searching for a polite way to nix the whole 'mixing sweeteners into tea' thing.

Reid cocked his head quizzically and his smile lost a little of its warmth. For a few moments, there was silence between them as Hotchner struggled to come up with something to say that wouldn't further insult the other agent. Then Reid leaned forward slightly. "Some people go out for drinks. Others go to the gym. For me? It's paperwork, film canister rockets, or something simple, like determining the solubility of sugar and its substitutes in iced tea." He shrugged. "I can do paperwork on the plane home and I don't have any film canisters with me. Hence, the iced tea."

Hotchner glanced down at his drink as he murmured, "It's how you relax." He felt like a complete idiot now because he should have figured that out. Reid faced down a heavily armed UnSub holding women and children hostage and talked his way to a solution in which no one was harmed and there were no shots fired.

"And part of your post-case ritual is to bring your team to a bar, buy their first round, and make sure that they know they're appreciated," Reid said. There was a pause. "That, and to see how the case affected them."

Hotchner straightened, almost indignant at the comment. "You make me sound Machiavellian."

"It was an observation, Agent Hotchner," Reid replied, "not a judgment."

The waitress arrived with the four glasses of tea and the four spoons.

Reid was grinning again, his tone light and enthusiastic. "Are you sure you don't want to test a few theories? How quickly aspartame dissolves in liquid versus saccharine…" He paused as his cell phone rang. He plucked it from his belt and answered. He listened for a few moments before saying, "Hold on." He gave an apologetic smile as he stood up. Hotchner rose as well (some Southern habits were nearly impossible to break). Reid gestured towards the glasses, "Some other time?"

"Of course, sir," Hotchner replied automatically.

Reid gave him an appreciative smile and then returned to his phone call, walking to the front the bar and exiting so he could have some privacy.

Hotchner sat down at the table, eyeing the glasses of iced tea. He still wasn't sure quite what happened. It wasn't the conversation he hoped to have. It wasn't _anything_ he'd ever envisioned. He wondered if Reid thought him to be a complete idiot or a suck up, because honestly, why else would he agree to do an experiment at a later date?

A filled shot glass was plunked down next to his left hand as Greenaway slid into the seat her boss had just vacated. "You look like you could use that."

"Thank you, but I'm fine," Hotchner said.

"Not a Jaegermeister guy then?"

"No."

Greenaway shrugged, picked up the shot, and downed it. She made a face and put the glass down. "Guh. Give me a good tequila any day." She then tapped the side of one of the iced teas. "Either you're really thirsty or Reid was about to do Science Friday."

"The latter," Hotchner told her dryly. She laughed as she grabbed one of the teas. She took a sip, nodded and took a deeper one. When she set the glass down, he said, "You acknowledge that it's Science Friday iced tea, yet you still take a drink."

"Tell me why I did," she challenged.

"You trust him."

"Try again, Hot Shot, or does that nickname only apply to what you're packing in your pants?"

Taken back, Hotchner straightened. _She's testing me_, he thought. He looked down at the table. "The spoons are in a pile and none of them are wet. The packets of sweetener are unopened. The straws are still in their wrappers." He met her gaze. "And you've been sitting on the stool next to McAuliffe, watching our exchange from the moment I sat down."

"Not bad for a SWAT guy."

"I'm not just a SWAT guy, Greenaway."

"As if you didn't make that point quite clear back in the office," she commented and then took another swig of the tea. "I'm surprised you didn't pony out your thesis for him to grade." He opened his mouth to protest, but then wondered how the hell she knew he was working on his Masters. That topic didn't come up in any of their conversations and he certainly didn't broadcast his academic status with the rest of the field office. She held up her hand. "You honestly think you're the only field agent who wants to get into the BAU?" She snorted. "At least you make it interesting."

"Interesting," he repeated. He wanted to be angry that she called him out like that, but forced himself to hold his temper.

"You didn't come over here to talk to Reid just to give him your resume," Greenaway told him, her tone softening just a bit. "You made sure that I had a drink and that your men would treat me nicely. Then, your Southern manners kicked in when you saw Reid sitting by himself. A good host makes sure all his guests are having a good time. And … instead of promoting yourself, you listened to him. Not many people do that."

"Really."

"Really." She fiddled with her glass. "Now, before you say, 'I want that spot on the BAU,' I'll tell you this. There aren't any openings right now, but you know from your own research into the department how quickly that can change. So, my advice to you? Keep the suit. Lose the nickname."

"Shouldn't you have a deck of cards and a crystal ball?"

"It's not mind-reading, Hot Shot," she retorted, glancing over to where Reid was entering the bar again. She stood up and, like before, Hotchner did the same.

"Spokane," Reid told her without preamble as he approached them. "Family annihilator. Third attack in four weeks."

Greenaway shook her head. "And they're just calling us in _now_?"

Reid gave a dismissive shrug. "The rest of the team is leaving Quantico within the hour. We're on Alaskan at 11 PM."

"I can take you to the airport," Hotchner offered.

"Thanks, but no. I've already called a taxi. We just need to get our bags."

"I'll walk you out, then," because their stuff was in his car. Hotchner dug out his keys and motioned towards the door. He was hoping that Reid would begin discussing the case with Greenaway once they were back outside, out of earshot of the general public. Instead, Reid launched into a discourse on why Spokane's airport code was GEG—originally it was named Geiger Field after Major Harold C. Geiger—and Hotchner wondered if Reid was like that all the time, or if the man was simply making noise.

Once they retrieved their bags, Reid held out his hand to Hotchner. "Thank you for your hospitality."

"You're welcome," he said. They shook, Hotchner surprised at the firm grip and strength that Reid conveyed. Greenaway's handshake was the same bone-crushing one when they first met.

They walked over to where the taxi was waiting. The disappointment that Hotchner felt because he wouldn't be able to spend more time with the BAU agents was quickly tempered with, _Do you seriously want to listen to more useless facts on the drive to the airport?_

Greenaway got into the taxi first, and as Reid began to climb in, he stopped and snapped his fingers. He favored Hotchner with an apologetic smile. "Could you send me a copy of your tactical analysis report from today?"

"Yes, sir," Hotchner replied, a flush of cockiness and relief hitting him. He knew how good his reports were. Having the BAU unit chief ask for it? Well, that _had_ to be step in the right direction. "Safe travels, sir."

Reid simply grinned and got into the car.

Hotchner watched as they drove away, willing himself not to do something incredibly stupid, like wave goodbye. It didn't mean he didn't want to. When he returned to his table inside, he picked up the packets Reid had set aside for his experiment. On impulse, he shoved them in the inner pocket of his suit jacket.

When he formally interviewed for the BAU—and, by God, he _was_ going to score an interview—he'll bring them with him. Surely, Reid would get a kick out of it.

####


	4. Book 1, Ch3:The NonTraditional Interview

**Title: **Keep the Suit, Lose the Nickname

**Author:** Kuria Dalmatia

**Characters/Pairing:** Hotch/Reid, Season 1's BAU

**Summary:** It took seven months but Hotchner _finally_ got the call from Quantico for an interview. He should have known it wasn't going to be a traditional one.

**WARNINGS: **Contains some adult content, case fic discussions**  
><strong>

**COMMENTS:** See Intro for additional comments, archiving info and disclaimers.

Thanks to everyone who has read and commented so far.

_**Additional A/N at the end of this chapter.**_

#####

It took seven months—six months, twenty-three days longer than Hotchner wanted—but he finally, _finally_ got the call from Quantico. While it wasn't the exact one he was hoping for (that would be the 'welcome to the BAU' one), it was still an interview for one of the toughest departments to break into.

He wondered if Greenaway dispensed advice to every agent who showed interest in the BAU. He'd like to think not; she seemed pretty protective of her unit. A little haughty about their expertise if Hotchner were to go back and review the case they worked together again.

Still, he took her words to heart, although dropping his nickname proved impossible in the Seattle office. If he was transferred the BAU (_when,_ he corrected himself, _**when** I'm transferred to the BAU_), he would make sure that Hot Shot became a thing of the past. He had another nickname, one that the DA gave him when he did his internship there, but it never quite stuck like Hot Shot had.

Then again, Hotchner hadn't really tried all that hard _to_ make it stick.

Hotchner knew the only reason why there was an opening in the unit was because of the bombing in Boston two months ago in which six agents lost their lives. Only one of the six had been with the BAU, SSA Don Hazelton.

Hotchner managed to find out that Gideon (who despite his long tenure in the BSU/BAU had never been named unit chief) was still on administrative leave following the bombing. From the reports, it sounded like Derek Morgan and Jennifer Jareau were the only other BAU agents besides Hazelton in Boston at the time. For whatever reason, it seemed that Greenaway wasn't. And if Reid had been there, he would have certainly done the press conference even if Jareau was their media liaison.

Then again, maybe not.

Reid wasn't the typical unit chief. Hotchner's time with him in Seattle was proof of that.

Regardless, Hotchner knew he had to downplay his eagerness. He had to focus on his unique skill set and the value it would add to the already impressive team. Greenaway and Morgan specialized in sex crimes and obsessional behavior respectively. Jareau handled the media. While Reid seemed to be an expert in almost everything, _none_ of the man's various degrees were in law. While Morgan did have a JD, he never practiced as an attorney.

Hotchner adjusted his grip on his briefcase and the strap of his overnighter. The five hour flight in the middle seat of a 757 had been tedious, but he effortlessly pushed that from his mind.

_Focus,_ he told himself. _Focus._

As he paused before the doors to the BAU (refraining, of course, from imaging himself opening them every day), he heard voices coming down the hall. Hotchner glanced over his shoulder to see Reid walking briskly down the hallway, flanked by the impeccably dressed Jareau (he recognized her from press conferences) and by another blonde haired woman. The other woman wore a floral print dress, pale green cardigan, and chunky high-heeled shoes. What stunned Hotchner the most were the pink and blue streaks in her hair and the necklace made up of smiley faces.

Reid's own couture had changed as well: dark slacks, dress vest with a pocket watch, solid shirt and subdued tie. His hair was shorter, more of a classic yet stylish man's cut. _He's still mourning the loss of Hazelton_, Hotchner immediate assessed, _and his ability to command was called into question_. He took a few steps back and to the side, allowing the group a clear path to the door. He had to. All three were focused on the papers in Reid's hands and not paying attention to their surroundings.

Or so Hotchner thought.

The group stopped as Jareau pushed open the door. Reid glanced up and addressed Hotchner, "Oh good. You're here." He jutted his chin towards Hotchner's bag. "Is that your overnight bag?"

Caught off guard, Hotchner sputtered, "Y-yes."

"Good," Reid said. "C'mon." Then, he and Jareau continued into the BAU.

Only the colorfully dressed woman remained behind. "I am their resident tech goddess extraordinaire. You may call me Garcia, handsome." She extended her hand.

Hotchner grasped it, surprised that she didn't crush his with the typical female FBI handshake. "Aaron Hotchner."

"Oh, I know all about you!" she cheerfully said as she released his hand and waggled a finger at him. "Now, you heard the boss man! Get cracking, my finely tailored agent. We have a case!" When he didn't respond right away, she made a clucking sound. "Oh, my poor, poor G-Man. You got stuck in the middle seat on the flight over, didn't you?"

"Ah. Yes."

She tugged on the sleeve of his suit coat. "Nothing a big cup of Doctor Reid's Special Brew can't cure. I'll make sure you get one."

"Ah, Garcia …" he began.

"Honey, you better get your Armani-clad butt into the conference room now," she admonished him as she walked to the door. She pushed it open. "Let's go."

Dumbfounded, he dutifully followed Garcia into the BAU, down the ramp and up the stairs into the large conference room. Jareau was standing in front of a large plasma screen with the pictures of three young boys displayed. Greenaway pushed out the chair next to her, an invitation to sit down.

Reid looked up from the file that he was reading. He then gestured with the file to each person in the room. "JJ, Morgan," who nodded at him, "Garcia," who waved enthusiastically. "You remember Elle." She lifted an eyebrow and gave him a small smile. Reid paused. "Team? Aaron Hotchner."

Hotchner set his briefcase and bag down and was about to begin the customary handshakes, but Reid didn't give him a chance. He handed him a file folder and launched into the briefing. "Yesterday morning," Reid began as he sat down, "a hiker discovered the body of eight year old Mark Wellman along one of the trails in Papago Park in Scottsdale, Arizona. He was reported missing a week ago. Three hours ago, Zachary Baumstein and Brian Feinberg, both age eight, went missing from the Jewish Day School."

Hotchner took a seat, swallowing hard as he realized just what was happening. He knew that the BAU was renowned for its pressure-cooker atmosphere, that some of the best and brightest agents burned out faster here than any other department except maybe Counter-Terrorism. The question about his overnight bag couldn't possibly mean that Reid was expecting him to join them ... Did it? Nerves kicked in but he forced them away as he opened the file.

_You wanted this_, Hotchner reminded himself and noted that none of the other team members batted an eye when Reid skipped over the formalities. _Maybe they do this with all their candidates_. It was quickly followed by, _You're getting ahead of yourself._

Hotchner listened as he scanned the file: a bare bones autopsy report, photographs of the dead boy, school photos of the missing two, and three police reports. The first police report detailed the Wellman abduction, the second the recovery of Wellman's body, and the third, Baumstein and Feinberg's abductions. However, it was the lack of details in all three—and why were Baumstein and Feinberg combined?—that stood out.

Strange.

Usually when a child was involved, the locals went overboard and included everything from how many ounces of OJ the children had for breakfast to how tall the grass was.

None of the reports had that.

He listened as Jareau gave additional information about the case. The time of day all three boys were abducted. The lack of witnesses. The searches that were being conducted. The separate press conferences the parents held. The ages and professions of the parents. The fact that the Baumstein and Feinberg families operated in different social circles.

Hotchner looked at the autopsy photos of Wellman, who had died from blunt force trauma to the back of the head. That was when he saw the faded bruises on the boy's legs. Hotchner skimmed over the report again. There were no other cuts or abrasions, no defensive wounds or signs that he was physically restrained. The child was not sexually assaulted. The body had been found wrapped carefully in blanket, the hands posed as if in prayer and a rosary wound around the boy's hands. He frowned.

"What do you see?" Reid prompted.

Hotchner jerked his gaze up, meeting the patient yet curious stare of the unit chief. He could feel the attention of the others focused on him. His mouth went dry. Hotchner swallowed down his hesitation—_If you really want this, this is what it's all about_—and stated, "The bruising on Wellman's upper thighs and the backs of his legs look older than a week, like they've healed. There are no obvious signs of him being restrained; if he was, the ligatures didn't leave a mark. There are no other marks on the body."

"So Mom or Dad could have been taking some frustrations out on their kid," Morgan commented, not looking up from the file. "Our UnSub may have seen that."

"It could explain the remorse shown in the burial," Greenaway added.

"Garcia, check if there is any history of reported abuse with Wellman and our two missings," Reid directed.

"On it, my liege," Garcia said as she scribbled in her notebook with a pen that had a Troll perched on the end.

"What else?" Reid prompted.

Hotchner continue to scan the documents, because something else was nagging him. When there was no immediate response from the rest of the group, he glanced up. Greenaway, Jareau and Morgan were staring at him, obviously waiting for him to answer Reid's question.

He suppressed the urge to clear his throat. "Wellman was last seen outside his home, which makes it a high-risk abduction. Baumstein and Feinberg were last seen at their private school, which is also high-risk. So far, there are no witnesses who saw the boys being taken, which could mean their abductor is comfortable with his surroundings and able to blend in." He paused. "Wellman was buried posed in prayer and with a rosary, the latter traditionally identified with Catholicism. However, Baumstein and Feinberg are Jewish."

"And Wellman wasn't?" Reid asked. The dead child's or his parents' religious affiliation wasn't listed on any of the reports.

"He wasn't circumcised," Hotchner answered bluntly, and then briefly wondered if the others thought it strange that he focused on that detail. When no one responded to his comment, he continued, "Baumstein and Feinberg also share similar physical characteristics: brown eyes, dark brown hair, wide noses, and slight builds. Wellman had blonde hair, green eyes, and was heavier-set. Most pedophiles are preferential."

"So you're saying the abductions aren't related."

"I did not say that, sir," he replied as he met Reid's intense gaze. "I'm answering your question."

That earned the barest nod from the unit chief before he addressed the rest of the group. "We'll finish the briefing on the jet. Wheels up in thirty."

The others acknowledged him and quickly filed out. Hotchner remained, watching as Reid studied the plasma screen with a slight frown.

Hotchner waited, unsure of what was going to happen next. Had that been a test? More than likely, especially since Morgan or Greenaway didn't really add much to the conversation. When the unit chief didn't say anything for a few moments, Hotchner prompted, "Sir?"

That seemed to jostle Reid out of thought. "There should be a few spare travel mugs in the kitchenette. Get some coffee here because what we have on the jet is, well, questionable depending on who restocks," he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "_Never_ let Morgan buy you coffee." He stood and grabbed the folder. "Make your phone calls. We'll have a car downstairs in ten."

"I'm going with you, then." Hotchner knew it was a stupid statement, but there was no way in hell he was going to assume that he'd been invited along.

Reid looked at him. "Do you have any history with the Scottsdale PD that I should be aware of?"

"No, sir."

"Do you have any personal connection to the victims or their families?"

"Not that I'm aware of."

"Is there any conflict of interest that may be a factor in the case?"

"None that I'm aware of, sir."

"Do you believe Schadek will have an issue with you going to Scottsdale?" Reid narrowed his eyes. "He _does_ know why you're out here, doesn't he?"

He lifted his chin. "I spoke to him about this interview. As far as if he'll have an issue with me not returning when I was scheduled to, you'll have to ask him, sir."

"Then I guess you need to add that call to your list." Reid shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his feet. He tilted his head sideways. His tone was tinged with amusement. "Unless you want me to ask for permission on your behalf."

Fighting the blush that threatened to stain his cheeks, Hotchner replied, "No, sir. I'll, ah, do that, sir."

"Excellent. Wheels up in …" he checked his watch. "Twenty-five." He headed towards the door but paused just as he was about to leave. "What are they calling you nowadays?"

_That_ made Hotchner blush. He was sure he met the unit chief's gaze as he replied, "Hotch."

Reid's grin was wide and warm as he repeated, "Hotch."

"Yes, sir."

"See you downstairs in ten, Hotch." Reid waggled his eyebrows and breezed out of the room.

#####

Unlike the discussion in the conference room, the briefing on the jet was more thorough. Reid, Morgan and Greenaway bounced ideas off each other while Jareau spent most of the time on her phone at the back of the jet. No one acted like having an interviewee as part of the case was something out of the ordinary, but it didn't lull Hotchner into a sense of complacency.

He knew he was being judged. It was ingenious—seeing how the potential team member operated under this kind of pressure, on a child abduction case no less—but also wholly unnerving.

What if he screwed up?

What if he missed something?

_You can't think like that_, he told himself. _You know better_.

Hotchner listened and took notes. When his opinion was asked (which wasn't often but always by Reid), he kept his comments precise. He made eye contact like he would if he were explaining something to a jury. However, the more Greenaway and Morgan talked through the autopsy photos and report, the more he believed that Wellman's death had nothing to do with the disappearances of Baumstein and Feinberg.

If the UnSub had wanted to end the child's suffering, there were a lot more effective ways of doing it. Suffocation and overdosing came quickly to mind; a blow to the back of the head was violent. For Hotchner, the partially-healed bruises and Wellman's frequent trips to the pediatrician combined with the posing of the body all added up to parental violence ending in the death of the boy.

Hotchner kept his thoughts to himself. If _he_ could come to those conclusions, then this team could as well.

The briefing lasted for thirty minutes before Reid called it quits.

"We have another four hours flight time," the unit chief announced. "Let's rest up while we can." He pointedly looked at Greenaway, who arched an eyebrow at him. "That goes for everyone." He then glanced over his shoulder at Jareau, who was typing on her Blackberry. "_Every_one."

"Everyone," Jareau repeated in a sing-song voice and then flipped her hair over her shoulder as she rolled her eyes.

Hotchner almost laughed. Almost. He watched as Morgan moved to the front right corner of the cabin and slid on noise-cancelling headphones while Greenaway took the front left corner, white ear buds stark against her dark hair. Jareau remained in her spot, still typing. When Reid cleared his throat, she let out a sigh, muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, "Okay, Dad, jeez," and put her Blackberry in its holder.

Reid settled back in his seat and gave Hotchner a sidelong glance. "The couch is yours. Garcia said you had the middle seat on the way out."

"I'm fine, sir. If you would like it …"

Reid held up his hand as he closed his eyes. "Just take the couch, Hotch."

Flattered by the way Reid said his nickname, he murmured, "Yes, sir."

#####

From the moment they deplaned, they were in constant motion. Reid's reminder of survival rates of abducted children was chilling, but it immediately changed Hotchner's mindset from "they're judging everything I do" to "you're here to find out what happened and to do whatever you can to bring those children home."

Hotchner paid attention. He followed orders even if he was disappointed that Morgan was assigned to coordinate with the local SWAT. Hotchner ended up with Greenaway as they went through the condo where the suspected UnSub was living, each reporting on what they found in the rooms.

"Not bad, Hot Shot," Greenaway complimented after he relayed his thoughts.

"Thank you," he replied, paused and then ventured with the correction, "and it's Hotch."

Greenaway gave him a sassy smile and dialed her phone. "Of course, it is," she said as she sauntered by, but for the rest of the case, she called him Hotch.

It wasn't until Reid declared that he was going to go in and talk down the UnSub, unarmed and without Kevlar just like in Seattle, that Hotchner asserted himself. "Sir, you cannot go in there like that."

Reid lifted his chin, his glare sharp and intimidating. "This isn't a debate, Agent Hotchner."

"Sir, going in there without your weapon and Kevlar is a mistake," Hotchner insisted, his tone hard. "Barry Isbalm is the same height, weight and build as you. His hair color and style are similar to yours. The media has already crucified the Scottsdale PD over this case, so you have a group of LEOs who want to make things right, a group who still believe the Wellman case is connected, and a group who wants to redeem themselves. By going in there without your Kevlar vest, you've made yourself an unintentional target if something were to go wrong."

"You don't trust this SWAT because you're not in charge of them?"

"That is irrelevant," Hotchner fired back. "In the past five years, seven SPD officers have been caught in friendly fire." He refrained from adding, _You're already down two people. You don't need to be the third._

The entire BAU team stared at Hotchner before Greenaway finally said, "He's got a point, Reid."

"The profile indicates that Isbalm respects authority," Morgan added. "Seeing FBI in big ol'block letters? That'll do it."

Hotchner swallowed but didn't break his gaze from Reid's angry one. Another few seconds went by before the unit chief shook his head slightly and held out his hand for his weapon that Jareau was holding.

"Morgan, with me," Reid said as he holstered his weapon and redid the closures on his vest. He then stalked over to the entrance to the storage unit where Isbalm was holed up with his two victims, Morgan in tow.

"Ballsy there, Hotch," Greenaway said quietly. "Real ballsy."

He didn't grin or smile. He scowled because one of _them_ should have stopped Reid, not some candidate for the job.

He didn't have much time after that as they got into position and listened over their earpieces as Morgan, not Reid, talked Isbalm down. The boys were released but hadn't come through their ordeal unscathed. Jareau and Greenaway were the only ones the boys would talk to. Morgan shoved Isbalm into the back of the cruiser hard enough that the vehicle rocked.

An hour later, Hotchner found himself back at the Scottsdale PD station and helping Greenaway and Morgan pack things away while Jareau handled the press conference. The conversation was minimal; neither BAU agents attempted to engage him and, while he was tempted to start one of his own, he could tell by the set of their shoulders and chins that they didn't want to talk.

"A moment with Agent Hotchner, please," Reid called from the doorway. Immediately, the other two dropped what they were doing and left the room. Hotchner stood at the table, placing the files down and keeping his hands at his side. Reid entered the room and closed the door. He gestured to one of the seats. "I know this wasn't the interview you were expecting."

"No, sir, it wasn't," Hotchner admitted as he sat down.

Reid dropped into a chair and leaned back, his body language open and calm yet his gaze was piercing. "You're a contradiction."

"Pardon me, sir?"

"A contradiction," Reid repeated as he snorted a little. "You're clearly an Alpha male, which you demonstrated in Seattle with your SWAT team in both a work and a social setting. Yet on this case?" He shrugged. "There were several instances where you could have exerted your status. There were ample opportunities for you to do some self-promotion, not only with me but with the other members of the team. Yet … you chose not to." He paused. "Well, not until we were going to confront the UnSub."

"With respect, sir …" Hotchner began.

The unit chief held up his hand and Hotchner fell silent. Reid tilted his head sideways. "Most agents would have made a more emotional appeal or simply stuck to variations of how it was suicide or that I'm crazy. They would have addressed the team, trying to get them on their side. You didn't. You addressed me directly. You chose logic."

"I argued my case to the judge," he said simply.

Reid's eyebrows shot up for a moment and then he grinned widely. "That you did." He glanced at his watch. "I've kept you long enough. Garcia's arranged your return flight to Seattle, which leaves in two hours. I believe she said USAir. You should have a text on your phone with your confirmation information. She promised to get you an aisle bulkhead seat." Before Hotchner could say anything, Reid continued. "It doesn't make any sense for you to come back with us to Quantico just to return to Seattle. Sorry, the BAU doesn't have a frequent flyer program."

It teased a smile out of Hotchner despite his disappointment at not being able to do a more formal interview. Then again, Reid was decidedly unorthodox and, well, _Actions speak louder than words_, Hotchner told himself before mentally adding, _They'd better_.

"There are three other candidates for this posting," Reid said bluntly. "I hope to be done by the end of the week, if another case doesn't come up."

"Don't you mean, if another three cases do come up?" Hotchner ventured, doing his best to keep the genuine curiosity out of his tone.

Reid only shrugged as he got to his feet and held out his hand. "Safe travels."

_He didn't answer. That has to be a good sign_, he thought to himself but made sure he kept his featured neutral. "Same to you and the team, sir," Hotchner replied as he shook the chief's hand.

#####

_**ADDITIONAL **__**A/N:**__ In the series premiere, Elle wasn't officially part of the team. She "wanted that spot" and asked Morgan for pointers. It was her plan that they used to lure the UnSub to the abandoned house to arrest. It's also clear that Gideon is familiar with her record; he mentioned that the one word that kept popping up in her files was "impatient." However, Greenaway proves herself by correctly identifying the behavior of the driver and leading to another break in the case._

_Finally, given the information presented in the ep, it's safe to assume that the "open spot" was because a BAU agent died in Boston. _

_So, that's just my rambling way of explaining my thou__ght process behind this chapter and Reid bringing Hotch along to evaluate his performance during the case. _


	5. Book 1, Chapter 4: Bale Him Out

_**Keep the Suit, Lose the Nickname**__**: A Criminal Minds AU  
><strong>__**Part 4: Bale Him Out**_  
><strong>Author:<strong> Kuria Dalmatia  
><strong>CharactersPairing:** Hotch/Reid, Season 1's BAU  
><strong>RatingsWarnings:**FRT/PG

**Summary:**As the only card-carrying lawyer the BAU has, Hotchner is assigned his first case: interview Adrian Bale with legendary profiler Jason Gideon.

TIMELINE: An AU look at "Won't Get Fooled Again."

COMMENTS: See Intro for additional comments, archiving info & disclaimers.

_**Additional A/N at the end of this chapter.**_

**######**

The phone call at three-eleven a.m. jolted Hotchner out of his sleep. He answered groggily, wondering who in God's name would be calling him at this hour. If it was his brother Sean, his younger sibling was definitely going to get an earful, especially if he was calling drunk.

The voice on the other end of the line was male and sounded chipper. "We've booked you on the six-ten to Atlanta. You'll meet up with Gideon to interview Adrian Bale."

Hotchner sat up, trying to make sense of what was said. "Huh?"

"Six-ten flight on Delta. Sorry that doesn't give you much time. We'll send you a text with the flight info. Bulkhead aisle, right?"

"Who the hell is this?" he demanded, because he wouldn't put it past some of the jokers at the office to prank him. Three weeks had gone by without a word from Quantico (not even a reply to his emails); the guys thought it hysterical that he jumped to answer every phone call on the first ring.

"Oh. This is Spencer Reid." The other man laughed sheepishly. "Sorry about that. Anyway, we have a serial bomber in Palm Springs and the bomb's signature matches Bale's. Morgan is in Quantico examining the fragments to see if the UnSub added his own twist. Gideon's going to interview Bale at the penitentiary but I need someone on the ground with him. We're probably going to have to offer plea deal in order to get any information. I want to make sure what's offered doesn't compromise us."

Hotchner was now fully awake, sitting up and moving to get out of bed. "I'm honored you would consider me, sir, but surely there are other agents closer …"

"There are other agents," Reid conceded. "But you're the only card-carrying lawyer the BAU has."

It took a full five seconds for what the man had said to register and even then, Hotchner wasn't sure if he heard right. "Sir?"

"I need someone with practical legal expertise on the ground with Gideon," Reid explained patiently. "If it gets to the point where we have to offer a plea deal, your experience as a prosecutor is going to come in handy." There was a pause. "Oh. Welcome to the BAU, Hotch. Garcia's sending you information on the original Bale case and what we have now to your personal fax. Gideon will meet you at the airport in Atlanta. Safe travels." The line when dead.

Hotchner pulled back his phone and stared at it. He shook his head. "Welcome to the BAU, indeed."

It wasn't until Hotchner was actually on the plane to Atlanta and reviewing the information he'd been sent when he realized that his own 'legal expertise' was only part of the equation. Hotchner had no history with Bale. He hadn't known Hazelton either. So in many ways, he was an impartial third party, one that Bale would have a harder time manipulating.

It was a bit unnerving, but Hotchner pushed it aside. He settled back in the seat, and briefly wondered how Garcia had managed to score him a bulkhead aisle seat on a sold-out flight with such short notice. He checked his watch and knew he had three more hours until they landed in Atlanta, which was plenty of time to nap.

Oh. And to allow himself a goofy smile as he savored his personal victory. He made the BAU.

_He made it._

#######

Agent Jason Gideon was aloof, dismissive. It was clear that he was unhappy that Hotchner had been assigned to tag along, and the ground rules that Gideon set forth were positively insulting, mostly because of how condescending he was. _Speak only when spoken to. Do not engage Bale. Do not make eye contact with Bale. If Bale attempts to initiate conversation, ignore him. _Defer to Gideon for every single thing.

To which Hotchner replied evenly, "I'll follow your lead, sir, unless our position in negotiations is compromised."

Gideon's glare was lethal. "Do not play games with me, Hot Shot."

"I won't," he retorted unflinchingly. "And it's Hotch or Hotchner. Your choice."

The older man sneered, "Do you honestly believe that every member of this team _doesn't_know you've been called Hot Shot since high school?"

"I believe that my preference to be addressed otherwise will be respected."

For a moment, Gideon said nothing. Then, he took a menacing step forward and spat, "You weren't his first choice."

It was meant to rattle him, of course, but Hotchner replied coolly, "But I'm the one here now."

Gideon spun on his heels and walked swiftly away, and Hotchner prayed that he really didn't just hear the mumbled, "We'll see how long," from the senior profiler.

#######

The first confrontation with Bale had Gideon facing down his nemesis alone. Hotchner watched on closed-circuit TV and had a direct line to the other agent via an earwig. He agreed to the setup only because Bale could resort to posturing instead of giving the answers that they needed. It was easy to see why Gideon was considered one of the best, even if he did needlessly threaten Bale with 'making his life even worse' if Bale was connected to the Palm Beach Bomber.

At the conclusion of the interview, Hotchner agreed with Gideon's assessment: if Bale was in control of the bombings, he would have taunted them with specifics. Not that Gideon asked for his opinion. The other agent continued to treat him with disdain.

God, it was like dealing with his own father.

Hotchner folded his arms across his chest as he listened to the one-sided conversation Gideon had with Reid, which concluded with, "We're heading back to Palm Springs now."

When Gideon hung up, Hotchner said, "I think it may be beneficial for me to stick around to observe Bale. He has privileges and I don't think he'll be able to resist sending a message out to his followers, bragging that he spoke to you. I think we can cull a suspect list from whatever contacts he makes or websites he visits."

Gideon narrowed his eyes for a moment before he ordered, "Stay here. Work with Garcia to get a list. And next time, speak when you're spoken to."

_He needs to establish dominance,_ was Hotchner's first thought. _He doesn't play well with others._Aloud, he acknowledged the directive (well, not all of it) and headed back to the warden.

#######

Two hours later, Hotchner found himself heading to Palm Springs on a private jet with Bale and four federal marshals. Their UnSub, David Walker, had blown himself up when Reid and Greenaway had tracked him down in the office building across from the police station, probably in response to Bale's online message about his only regret was being taken alive.

Bale attempted to strike up a conversation with Hotchner several times. Starting with the predictable, "You must be new" and then recounting the events in Boston in explicit detail. Bale made embellishments, but Hotchner refused the bait. Despite his earlier feelings about Gideon forbidding him to interact with Bale, Hotchner realized that it was part of an overall tactic. Bale craved attention. He relished evoking emotional responses.

Hotchner simply sat on the plane and ignored him. He didn't put his back to him; that would be stupid even if Bale was in wrist and ankle cuffs. Instead, he kept his posture casual as he opened his worn copy of _The Firm_to a random page and began reading. Bale continued his litany, questioning Gideon's integrity and wondering aloud if anyone would ever trust a man too stupid to figure out that Bale had a remote for the bomb.

Once they got to the station, Reid pulled Hotchner aside, careful not to allow Bale to see him doing so. "He called you Agent Grisham," Reid observed.

"Gideon said not to interact with him," Hotchner replied plainly. "So on the trip down, I read _The Firm._Well, pretended to read. I listened to what he was saying."

"Conclusions?"

"He's going to push the limits in exchange for his cooperation," he answered. He then frowned. "But I think more than anything else, he wants to publicly humiliate Gideon."

Reid nodded. "I'll need you in there during the negotiations."

"I believe you mentioned that this morning, sir," Hotchner replied dryly.

That earned a snort. "You'll need to be the one to say that Bale's demands are outrageous, that whatever he asks for isn't something we would give to a common criminal," Reid said after a moment. "Also, address Gideon as Jason."

"Establishing familiarity?"

"Exactly. Hopefully, it will give us what we need."

Five minutes later, Hotchner was in full lawyer mode as he scoffed at Bale's demands. When Bale demanded Gideon's confession, Hotchner did exactly what Reid suggested as he said, "Jason. That's enough."

Bale's eyes glowed.

All Hotchner could think was, _There's no way Bale is going to tell us the truth._

He wasn't sure how he felt when it turned out he was right.

#######

After the case was over, weather in the DC area kept them grounded in Palm Springs for the evening. It was Reid who suggested grabbing dinner at the local pub that Dan Tracy recommended. Hotchner wasn't surprised when Gideon declined.

Tracy and his team joined the BAU in a round of drinks. Hotchner automatically fell back into his role of unofficial host, making sure that Jareau and Greenaway (JJ and Elle, they corrected him on the ride over to the restaurant) were settled before joining Reid a few tables away from the ruckus.

Again, Hotchner had a glass of iced tea and, again, Reid had a glass of brandy. For several minutes, they sat in silence, watching as JJ and Elle flirted and joked with Tracy's team.

Finally, Reid spoke. "This wasn't the formal 'welcome to the BAU' that I was hoping for."

The comment took Hotchner by surprise. He laughed a little. "You're saying there's a party with my name on it in Quantico?"

"Garcia will make sure you have cupcakes when we get back. Red Velvet with cream cheese frosting," Reid answered, expression going a little dreamy. "Unless, of course, you'd like another kind."

"Red Velvet is fine," he assured him, warmed by the thoughtfulness but also a little unnerved that red velvet just happened to be his cake flavor of choice.

"When it's your birthday, she goes all out." Reid sipped his brandy. "Confetti, streamers, trick candles, joy buzzers, Silly String and balloons. Oh, and the cake hat."

"Cake hat?"

"It's made of felt," he explained. "It's hideous but she insists that you wear it for the entire day, else she'll Photoshop you into a truly embarrassing situation and post it in the kitchenette."

Hotchner's mouth dropped open. "She's … done that?" He didn't say, _...and you let her?_

"Anderson ended up in full a mariachi costume and standing next to a donkey with a sign reading, 'Watch my show,'" Reid confided with a conspiratorial wink. "Levity is a rare commodity in the BAU. Garcia reminds us to laugh."

He thought about it for a moment and recalled her attire from the day he met her. Smiley-faced buttons and troll dolls on the end of her pencil. If Reid did science experiments to relax, it was clear that a little outrageousness was Garcia's style.

Reid took a slow sip of his brandy, swirling the glass as he lowered it. "Would you have overridden Gideon's order if he had said to cut the red wire instead of the blue?"

Hotchner's belly clenched. He wasn't expecting the conversation to turn back to today's events. The automatic answer should have been, _Absolutely yes,_in order to bolster his position within the team. However, he didn't think himself as that kind of man. "I'm not sure, sir."

"But you knew that Bale would lie."

"I thought he might," Hotchner admitted, "but I wasn't sure."

"What tipped you off?"

"It was the way he relished in Gideon's confession," he explained. "The specific demands that Gideon admitted that Bale outsmarted him, how Bale was better than him. It was like …" He trailed off and glanced down at his glass of iced tea. "It was like he couldn't resist besting Gideon again."

Reid eyed him for a moment before saying, "You have good instincts."

"Thank you, sir."

"We're in a bar, Hotch. You can stop with the 'sirs.' And before you say, 'Habit,' I know. During a case, if makes you feel more comfortable, then fine. But off-duty? Reid works just fine."

"I'll try my best."

"I know you will." Reid met his gaze again. "Oh, and next time? Don't keep your opinions to yourself." Hotchner winced and opened his mouth to say something, but Reid didn't give him a chance. "We function as a team, each of us having different backgrounds that enable us to provide various viewpoints into the case."

"Yes …" Hotchner managed to swallow the 'sir' before it left his lips. Reid offered a small smile and went back to sipping his brandy.

The post-case tension was still there, hanging between them. Hotchner took a deep breath and then fished out the plastic baggie with the sugar and sweeteners from their first meeting. It was a risky move, but since he already had the job, it couldn't really be seen as a blatant suck up. Maybe. "Should I order four iced teas?"

Reid suddenly beamed, enthusiasm sparkling in his eyes. He looked remarkably younger, the lines around his mouth and eyes going from serious to mischievous. He gleefully rubbed his hands together. "Let's start with half-glasses with no ice," he said as he fished out his notebook from his ever-present messenger bag. "And get five. They have Sugar in the Raw here."

And Aaron Hotchner decided that he would carry sugar packets with him wherever they went just to see that smile.

########

_ADDITIONAL A/N: As mentioned in the beginning, this isn't a Gideon-friendly AU. While I don't consider myself anti-Gideon, I've rewatched S1 & S2 a few times and found myself struck by how mean-spirited Gideon could be. While the writers' intentions were probably to show Gideon's intuitive brilliance, it can come off as arrogance and is off-putting in some episodes, especially when it comes to his "Gideon knows best" attitude._

_It's clear that the Adrian Bale bombings took a lot out of him and I believe he never recovered from it. Also, this is Gideon's first introduction to Hotchner (aside from classes at Quantico), and Hotchner is the first BAU agent that Gideon did not personally vet before being brought on board._


	6. Book 1, Ch 5: Restless Nights, BAU Style

_**Keep the Suit, Lose the Nickname**__**: A Criminal Minds AU  
><strong>__**Part 5: Restless Nights, BAU Style**_  
><strong>Author:<strong> Kuria Dalmatia  
><strong>CharactersPairing:** Hotch/Reid, Season 1's BAU  
><strong>RatingsWarnings:** FRM/R (sexual situations, profanity)

**Summary:** Some mornings it was almost impossible for Hotch to look Reid straight in the eye. What could he say? _Sir, remember when we first met and I called you a prosecutor's wet dream? Turns out you are._

COMMENTS: See Intro for additional comments, archiving info & disclaimers.

**######**

Life in the BAU alternated between heavy travel and being stuck in the office working consults and cold cases. Not every case had a happy ending, so Hotch quickly learned to take a win no matter how small. The BAU-inspired nightmares were unnerving as well, and Hotch wasn't sure if he was thankful that he couldn't remember much about them.

Waking up in a sweat-soaked bed wasn't any fun. He did his best to cope with the nightmares and was thankful that no one called him out on the mornings he looked liked death warmed over.

It seemed that the evenings he didn't have nightmares, he dreamed about his boss. _Those_ he remembered in vivid detail, and given their very explicit sexual nature, some mornings it was almost impossible to look Reid straight in the eye. What could he say? _Sir, remember when we first met and I called you a prosecutor's wet dream? Turns out you are. I've been having erotic dreams about you. I wake up with a mess in my shorts like some horny teenager._

Hotch was sort-of comfortable with his own bisexuality, but it wasn't something he advertised or really acted on. After breaking up with Haley Brooks after his freshman year of college, Hotch dated mostly women. He couldn't really say he _dated_ another man; 'interacted' seemed too impersonal of a term, but he wasn't quite how to describe it. Two college guys hanging out, getting drunk (sometimes but other times just using it as an excuse), messing around, and the next morning, promptly ignoring that they had messed around. Still, those few men had several things in common with Reid: intellectual, well-spoken, tall, and lanky.

Yes, Reid was "his type," but Reid was also his boss. The anti-fraternization policies were not as stringent as people were lead to believe; the lawyer in Hotch found the loopholes on a whim (okay, on a night when he couldn't get the images of dead little boys out of his mind and entertaining an illicit affair with Reid was a good distraction). However, it was a line that Hotch believed Reid was unlikely to cross.

It took an epic amount of willpower, but Hotch was able to shove those particular thoughts into a corner of his mind. He concentrated on his job and getting to know the rest of the BAU. While Morgan played up his ladies' man image, Hotch knew that the other man's extracurricular activities went beyond clubbing, teaching self-defense and working out. There were several times that Morgan arrived at the BAU with paint flecks dotting his knuckles and the back of his head while drywall dust clung to his leather jacket.

Elle was an avid salsa dancer; her shoes had fallen out of her bag once and there was more than one occasion when she showed up wearing a flesh-colored ankle brace on her left foot. Garcia's cosplay hobby was no secret, neither was JJ's passion for the Washington Redskins. Anderson preferred rugby over soccer. Wendy was a vegan at home but a carnivore in the field.

Hotch supposed he knew bits about every member of the BAU.

He also liked to think he pretty much got along with everyone.

Well. Almost everyone.

He had no problem with 'the grunts,' which was what Elle affectionately called those in the bullpen. Hotch had a friendly rivalry with Morgan, Elle gave him all sorts of good-natured hell, JJ became the kid sister he never had, and Garcia fussed over him when she wasn't fussing over Morgan.

His issue wasn't with Reid either, obviously.

The person Hotch found himself at constant odds with was Gideon, and he wondered what he'd done to provoke such a reaction. He was no threat to Gideon's position as second-in-command; it was clear from Section Chief Strauss's visits to the bullpen that Morgan was next in line if there was going to be a change in the BAU's power structure.

Gideon doled out compliments to Elle, JJ and Morgan but only handed out thinly-veiled insults to Hotch. He was the only one who used Hotch's full last name while the others called him by his nickname. The moment he made a mistake, Gideon admonished him with some variation of, "How could you be so stupid?" Sometimes it was in front of the others; sometimes it was in private.

Hotch liked to believe it was Gideon's way of toughening him up to go against those UnSubs who could profile just as good as they could. However, in the back of his mind, he knew it was more personal than that. He was Hazelton's replacement, Gideon still felt guilty about Hazelton's death, and Gideon's hostility towards him was due to the transference.

So, Hotch approached it like he approached every other person who verbally attacked him over the years. He sucked it up. He refused to react. Hell, he even thanked Gideon for pointing out his mistakes.

It was fucked up, certainly, but it was a tolerable situation.

Really.

It was.

**######**


	7. Book 1, Chapter 6: Course Correction

_**Keep the Suit, Lose the Nickname**__**: A Criminal Minds AU  
><strong>__**Part 6: Course Correction **_  
><strong>Author:<strong> Kuria Dalmatia  
><strong>CharactersPairing:** Hotch/Reid, Season 1's BAU  
><strong>RatingsWarnings:**FRM/R (sexual situations, profanity)

**Summary:** While sharing a hotel room in Montgomery, Alabama, Reid confronts Hotch about Gideon and how it affects the team.

**COMMENTS:**Thanks to everyone who has reviewed so far! Thanks so much for your comments and suggestions.

**A few clarifications on my part since it hasn't been addressed directly so far:**

In this AU, Hotch is about the same age as Morgan. While he worked in the prosecutor's office, it was a very short stint before he went on to the FBI. He didn't run the Seattle field office like he did in canon nor did he run security for Ambassador Prentiss.

Reid is in his early- to mid-forties, and as spent the last fifteen or so years in the BAU. Gideon did bring him in to the BAU but (as it stands right now), Reid wasn't directly recruited out of college.

See Intro for additional comments, archiving info & disclaimers.

**######**

It wasn't until Hotch's sixth month with the BAU that they were forced to share hotel rooms because of a city-wide convention. Morgan and Gideon had doubled up (Hotch hoped his sigh of relief wasn't as loud as he thought it was), leaving Hotch with Reid.

It was surprising yet refreshing to discover he shared similar habits with his unit chief. He pointedly ignored the little voice inside his head that snickered, _So, so compatible. Just like in your dreams._ Their dop kits were similar as well, although Reid was the one who had condoms and lube discretely tucked into the side pouch; the only reason Hotch found them was because he had asked to use Reid's toothpaste since he'd left his home.

_Perfect fodder__ for my overactive imagination_, Hotch thought miserably. _Please don't let me have embarrassing dreams in which I call out his name and say something humiliating like, 'Please, suck my cock_.'

Fortunately, the case was intense enough that for the first three nights, Hotch immediately fell into a dreamless sleep. On the fourth night, Hotch returned from the workout room, patting himself on the back for being able to keep up with Morgan's insane pace on the treadmill. Late-night exercise actually helped curb his nightmares but he had to be careful not to overdo it.

He found Reid literally standing on his head against the far wall, which was the first time the man had done it while they were sharing. Odd, for certain, but then Hotch remembered a throwaway comment Reid had made about yoga four cases ago. Hotch didn't know much about the practice, so he refrained from making some snarky observation. He would tease Morgan, certainly, but never Reid.

Reid's undershirt had slid down to his armpits, revealing pale skin and lean muscles. The man's pajama pants gave in to gravity as well, revealing a nasty scar on his knee.

_Stop staring_, Hotch ordered himself. It was true that he found himself courting Reid's smile and laugh more often. As serious as the chief could be, his brand of humor was delightfully offbeat. He also realized that Reid rarely went off on a tangent about some esoteric fact for no reason. It sometimes took days for Hotch to link the conversation back to something relevant, usually about a case or some snippet of a casual conversation. He found he didn't mind at all.

Aaron Hotchner most definitely did _not_ have a crush on his boss. He most definitely did _not_ get jealous when people flirted with Reid when they were all out together.

He most definitely had to stop staring at his boss's bared midriff and wondering what the man's skin tasted like.

Hotch announced he was going to take a shower and heard the muffled, "Okay."

Ten minutes later, Hotch emerged from the bathroom dressed in his boxers and t-shirt. Hotch was still a little embarrassed because he wasn't wearing formal pajamas like Reid. Then again, he wasn't expecting on sharing a room when they'd initially gotten the case.

Reid was sprawled on the bed nearest the window, flipping through channels on the TV with the volume off. It was somewhat late—just after ten—and they had a very early start tomorrow morning. Their UnSub de jour killed his victims at sunrise, and Reid predicted they'd have another victim tomorrow based on the pattern so far, which was why he had insisted on them all calling it an early night.

Hoping for a light, easy conversation that always set him at ease, Hotch asked, "Was that yoga?"

"Mm-hmmm," Reid answered, still flipping through channels.

It wasn't a sharp dismissal, but still Hotch knew an 'I'm not in the mood for whatever conversation you have in mind' sound when he heard it. He fished out his copy of _The Da Vinci Code_ and settled in to bed.

"That's full of historical inaccuracies, you know," Reid commented after a few moments.

Hotch chuckled. "I suppose it is."

"He plagiarized most of it."

"The same can be said of Shakespeare. _King Lear_ especially."

"There weren't any real copyright laws back then," Reid replied as he sat up, turned off the TV, and placed the remote on the nightstand between their beds. "And he transformed stories into plays. In modern terms, that would be an adaptation."

"Would it help if I said that half the fun is recognizing which parts are complete BS? It's not as bad as _Deception Point_. I can suspend my disbelief quite well, but having the protagonist tapping out an S-O-S on glacier and a passing Navy sub just _happens_ to pick up is just too much to ask."

Reid gave a small smile. "Good point." He cleared his throat. "Listen, Aaron, there's something we need to discuss."

Just like that, the light mood turned serious. The use of his first name sent a cold chill down his spine. He let out a breath and closed the book. "Okay."

"It's about Gideon. Normally, I allow agents to work their differences out among themselves," he stated, as he sat on the edge of the bed, rested his forearms on his knees, and clasped his hands together. "But I feel that this is something that's not going to go away easily."

Hotch automatically mimicked Reid's posture. He swallowed hard. His mind raced.

Reid let out a long sigh. "I know you'll answer me honestly, so I'm just gonna ask. Was there an altercation between you and Gideon that I need to know about?"

Hotch frowned. "No, sir," because it was true. Hell, he went out of his way not to antagonize the other agent.

"Aaron, it's after ten in the evening, I'm wearing pajamas with Fibonacci spirals and you're in your underwear," came the gentle admonishment. "I think we can dispense with the formalities. Please, call me Spencer."

"Spencer," he dutifully repeated.

"Thank you." Reid paused again. He met Hotch's gaze with a steady one of his own. "I'm concerned how this is affecting the team."

Hotch let out a breath and turned his head. "I don't know what to say."

"You haven't said anything, which concerns me."

His gaze flew to his superior's. "It hasn't affected…"

"It _has_ affected the team," Reid interrupted, voice gentler than Hotch was expecting. "Until you came onboard, Morgan would rather sleep in the SUV than bunk with Gideon. But when it became apparent that we had to share on this case, he offered to share with Gideon without hesitation."

Hotch set his jaw. He straightened and saw the concerned look on Reid's face. "I'd like to think that Gideon's … attitude towards me as being toughened up. There's going to be an UnSub out there who can profile me just as good—maybe even better—than anyone here. And if that UnSub targets me, I'd like to think that I can withstand that barrage, thanks to Gideon's efforts."

Reid shook his head, disappointment clear in his features. "You'll allow yourself to be possibly emotionally abused because you think it will make you a better person."

"It will make me a better profiler."

"Aaron …"

"Are we done, sir?"

Reid's shoulders slumped. However, his voice took on a dispassionate edge. "I'm sure you know by now that Hazelton was hand-picked by Gideon and that Gideon considered the man his protégé, as he does now with Elle and Morgan. You replaced Hazelton. He didn't have the opportunity to vet you like he has for every candidate for the past fifteen years. You …" He made eye contact with Hotch. "You don't seek his counsel like Elle or Morgan or any number of BAU agents. You don't chase after him with questions like, 'why did the Footpath Killer stutter?' which is a stumper than still has cadets lining up in his office to ask." He leaned back. "So clearly, there is something you see that the rest of us can't. What is it?"

"I refuse to profile a fellow team member."

Reid's laugh was sharp, cold. "You're the one who made it formal, Agent Hotchner. You're the one who called me 'sir.' So. This isn't an Embassy Suites near Maxwell Air Force Base in Montgomery, Alabama. It's my office in Quantico. We're not in our PJs, but dressed how we usually do. Today is the second Wednesday of the month, so you're wearing your light gray suit, white shirt with French cuffs, burgundy tie with the silver triangles, and your monogrammed cufflinks. This isn't a late night conversation between two friends, but one between a superior and a subordinate. Therefore, answer the question, Agent Hotchner."

Hotch's mouth went dry. Another chill raced down his spine. The line about what suit he wore on a specific day completely unnerved him, and no amount of compartmentalizing was going to ease that feeling anytime soon.

He focused on the small stain on the carpet near Reid's tennis shoes.

"Look at me," Reid snapped.

Hotch immediately complied. He struggled to swallow. Reid's gaze was fiery. It took two tries, but finally he admitted, "I only met Gideon once before I joined the team. It was while I was still at the Academy and he taught the introduction to profiling class. He never seemed… approachable.

"My observations … Gideon still suffers from PTSD. He needs to feel needed. He craves the adulation of younger, more inexperienced agents because it gives him the sense of accomplishment he lost when those agents were killed in Boston. It's why he holds his opinions close to his chest. He wants to dazzle people with his insight, but it comes off as arrogance instead of true inspiration which it likely is."

"Do you think he faked his way through a psych evaluation?"

He grimaced. "It's not a question of faking, but a matter of knowing how to answer the questions correctly." He looked away and whispered miserably, "You didn't challenge the results."

Silence hung in the room and Hotch sat on the bed, shoulders aching from the tension and knuckles white from him clasping them together so tightly.

"Do you think lesser of me?"

"He was your mentor," Hotch answered hoarsely. "We all want to think our mentors are omnipotent, omniscient and infallible even if we know that they're not."

The hum of the air conditioner was the only sound in the room for the longest time. Then, Reid let out a long sigh. "So Gideon's the pope now?

"Jesus was Jewish, so it's possible."

That elicited a snort from Reid. "Are we done being SSA SAC Doctor Reid and SSA Hotchner?"

Hotch nodded. "Yes."

"Just so you know, I've never thought you the type to put yourself above the team. You are not petty like that," Reid added. "You proved that in Scottsdale, in Palm Springs, and on any number of cases. You're confident in your abilities. You don't feel the need to put someone else down to further your career. So when I ask your opinion on something, understand that I don't automatically assume you're putting yourself ahead of the others. Do you get that?"

"I do now."

"Good." He shook himself a little and then added quietly. "Gideon's going to keep pushing you. Personally, I don't think it's to 'toughen you up' but to chase you off, but I trust your judgment. But … It's only a matter of time until Gideon decides to go after your parental issues."

Hotch jerked his gaze up, his belly tightening.

"We try not to profile each other, but we do anyway. I'm sure you've picked up on what Elle's and Morgan's issues are, but you'd never use it against them. You're too honorable to do that." Reid's expression was sad yet compassionate. He then shook his head. "You do realize that Gideon's going to pick the moment when you're the most vulnerable to shame you. He'll try to humiliate you to the point where you believe you cannot face the Team again." He leaned forward and settled a hand on Hotch's shoulder. "Don't let it get to that."

"I'll … I'll try not to."

"Good." He gave Hotch's shoulder a light squeeze. "I know it's going to be difficult, but due try to get some sleep." Reid moved away and said, "Good night, Aaron."

"Good night," he replied, but he couldn't bring himself to say the man's first name.

#######


	8. Book 1, Chapter 7: Garrote

_**Keep the Suit, Lose the Nickname**__**: A Criminal Minds AU  
><strong>__**Part 7: Garrote**_  
><strong>Author:<strong> Kuria Dalmatia  
><strong>CharactersPairing:** Hotch/Reid, Season 1's BAU  
><strong>RatingsWarnings:**FRT/PG (profanity)

**Summary:** As the garrote tightened around his throat, Hotch vowed, _I'll never allow Gideon to have my back again_.

TIMELINE: An AU look at S1's "Natural Born Killer"

COMMENTS: See Intro for additional comments, archiving info & disclaimers.

**Additional A/N at the end of this chapter.**

**######**

As the garrote tightened around his throat, Hotch vowed, _I'll never allow Gideon to have my back again_. They were in a junkyard tracking down an UnSub, and Gideon had told Hotch to take the lead. Tactically, it made the most sense; Hotch was obviously much fitter and could chase down the UnSub more effectively than Gideon could. Plus, Hotch knew he was the better shot.

Realistically? Well, the whole point of having backup was that said backup came in like the Calvary to save the lead's ass if needed.

And Hotch definitely needed it.

He managed to get his feet underneath himself, coil just enough so that when he pushed back, he had more force. His attacker—Vincent Perotta—wasn't a run of the mill UnSub. No. This was a professional killer who had over one hundred victims to his credit.

It didn't stop Hotch from fighting, from throwing his head back in an attempt to head butt Perotta (which failed) to clawing at the hands holding the wire cutting into this throat (which also failed) to stomping down with his heel on Perotta's feet to gain leverage (which epically failed and was such a _girl_ thing to do).

White spots danced before his eyes as his lungs burned and he became lightheaded. Hotch kept fighting, because being strangled in a junkyard by a contract killer was a pretty shitty way to die.

Suddenly, he heard Reid's distinct shout of, "FBI! It's over Perotta!"

He was jerked back _hard_ and he momentarily lost his footing.

A loud shot rang out.

Warm liquid splattered against the side of Hotch's face, near his eyes, nose and mouth.

The garrote abruptly loosened.

Hotch shoved his elbows back sharply as Perotta's hands dropped away. Hotch fell to his knees, pulling the wire away. He scrambled forward, lungs searing as he took in huge breaths, the air tasting cold yet fetid. The concrete bit into his palms, which burned as badly as his throat. He kept his eyes closed because he could feel the wetness mixing with his own sweat and dripping down the side of his face.

_Blood. _The seminar on blood-borne pathogens that Reid insisted everyone in the BAU attend every six months came flooding back in Hotch's mind.

A hand touched his shoulder and he immediately batted it away, lunging for his backup strapped to his ankle but not coordinated to get it on the first try.

"Hotch! It's Reid! Perotta's dead. You're safe! You're safe!"

Hands were on Hotch's shoulders again, pushing him up into a sitting position and the rolling him a bit until he was sitting on his ass and leaning against a cold metal something.

"Hold on. Hold on," Reid ordered.

Hotch could hear the chief rustling and the rip of paper.

"Stay still. I'm going to wipe the blood away from your eye and mouth," Reid told him, tone switching from commanding to soothing.

Hotch nodded and rested his skull against the metal. He smelled the sharp tang of isopropyl alcohol before rough wet paper swiped under and around the corner of his eye, then his cheek and the side of his mouth. Then, he felt fingers tugging at the knot around his throat.

"Loosen your tie for once," Reid chided. Once his had the knot loose enough, he undid the top button of Hotch's dress shirt. "I got most of the gore. You should be able to open your eyes now."

And when he did, he stared into Reid's warm, concerned-filled eyes. Reid's fingers gently swiped around the inside of Hotch's shirt collar so that the fabric didn't rest against his skin. Reid was so close.

So … _close_.

"I could kiss you right now," Aaron blurted hoarsely, wondering where in God's name those traitorous words came from.

Reid's hand stilled against his neck, but his face registered no shock or revulsion at Hotch's declaration. "Maybe some other time," Reid said softly, fondly. His lips quirked into that amused little smile of his, the one that Hotch found himself courting when they had private conversations. He paused for a moment, thumb brushing the side of Hotch's neck. "You've won a trip to the hospital. No arguments."

"I'm fine."

"You missed the part where I said, 'no arguments.'" Reid rocked back on his haunches before standing up. He held out a hand, which Hotch accepted, and helped Hotch to his feet.

Hotch was still a little woozy, so he steadied himself against the junker behind him. He looked over to where the EMTs were lowering Perotta's body onto the plastic. Morgan was to one side and Elle on the other.

Gideon was nowhere in sight.

A chill ran through Hotch again, but then he felt Reid's hand wrap around his elbow. "I won't make you ride in the bus," the chief said as he tugged gently at Hotch to get him to move. "But you're going to the hospital."

Knowing he sounded petulant, he still said, "I hate the hospital."

Reid snorted. "Don't we all."

#########

**ADDITIONAL AUTHOR'S NOTES:**

I've gotten several questions about "where's Gideon". My original intention was to leave it up to the readers. Was Gideon genuinely leaving Hotch "out to dry" at the hands of an UnSub? Or was Reid's timing just much better? Maybe Gideon had a sudden panic attack that paralyzed him long enough for Hotch to get separated and subsequently attacked by Perotta. Honestly, I don't Gideon would jeopardize Hotch's life. IIRC in the ep, Hotch and Gideon were separated in the junkyard; Gideon got to him first and then the rest of the team showed up. It could have been that Reid got there first and, when Gideon saw that Hotch had almost been taken down, he walked off out of guilt because another agent could have been dead because of him.


	9. Book 1, Chapter 8: SpenSir

_**Keep the Suit, Lose the Nickname**__**: A Criminal Minds AU  
><strong>__**Part 8: Spen-sir**_  
><strong>Author:<strong> Kuria Dalmatia  
><strong>CharactersPairing:** Hotch/Reid, Season 1's BAU  
><strong>RatingsWarnings:**FROA/R (sexual situations, adult content, profanity)

**Summary:** Just as Reid had warned in Alabama, Gideon came after Hotch when the younger agent was at his most vulnerable. The profile was cruel and paralyzing. Sometimes, there was only one way to recover.

TIMELINE: An AU look at S1's "Blood Hungry"

COMMENTS: See Intro for additional comments, archiving info & disclaimers.

In the original "Blood Hungry" episode, Gideon remained in Quantico. For this AU, he's with the Team in Tennessee. Yes, there are some direct quotes from the episode. No infringement is intended.

**######**

Tempers were short in Harringtonville, Tennessee. They were rushing against the clock to try to save Wally Brisbane and to find the UnSub with an anthropophagy kink who was more than likely responsible.

When they finally honed in on Eddy Mays and his socialite mother, Mary (who was doing a fair job at stonewalling the BAU), Gideon did just as Reid predicted those months ago.

He verbally went after Hotch in front of Elle, Morgan and JJ. Gideon focused on the similarities between the Mays and Hotch's parents, theorizing that Hotch had been verbally abused by his mother and physically by his father. The details. Oh, God, the details. His mother on vodka-valium train while his father stuck to scotch. How they controlled every aspect of his education until Hotch rebelled to become an FBI agent. How they doted on his youngest brother but nothing Hotch did was ever good enough for them. The nickname of Hot Shot and why he coveted being called that. His failed romantic relationships, using the words 'terminated' and 'aborted.'

It was cruel. It was vicious.

It was one-hundred percent on the mark.

It was paralyzing.

In all the scenarios Hotch played out in his mind about this moment, none of them featured him being unable to defend himself. He just stood there, the barbs tearing through his battered mental shields weakened by exhaustion from the case. Horrified, he could feel himself breaking, the light-headedness settling in. The way his stomach clenched and cold chills shot through his system. He struggled … he struggled …

"What the _hell_, Gideon?" Elle hissed, coming to stand to Hotch's left while JJ stood to Hotch's right.

Morgan stepped between Hotch and Gideon, facing the older profiler. "This isn't helping, man."

There were those awful seconds of silence before Gideon took a step back, waved a finger at them silently, and then left the room.

Hotch's knees buckled and the women caught him by the elbows, easing him into the chair. Morgan still had his back to him so he didn't actually see Hotch collapse, which was not much of a consolation. Hotch's hands shook hard, his heart thundered in his chest, his eyes burned, and his breathing came in rapid bursts.

JJ grabbed one hand and Elle the other. It was Elle who ordered, "Morgan, find him a sandwich. OJ, too. He hasn't eaten since breakfast and it's well past dinner."

"There should be a box of protein bars in the SUV," JJ added. She squeezed Hotch's hand. "I know you hate the Kashi ones, Hotch, but that's all the Circle K had. That or beef jerky."

"He's from Virginia," Elle snorted. "I bet you he 'snaps into a Slim Jim' when we're not looking."

"Slim Jims aren't beef jerky," JJ fired back. "They're a smoked snack, whatever the hell that means."

"You're an expert on Slim Jims?"

"Ever play convenience store bingo with Reid? I swear I'll never eat another Cheeto for the rest of my life."

Hotch stared at the table, unable to move or speak. Humiliation seared to his core despite the unexpected, unselfish support he received from his teammates. Elle rubbed circles with her thumb on the back of his hand. His tie was loosened and the top button of his shirt was undone, but he wasn't sure by whom.

Slowly, his breathing returned to normal, but his vision was still focused on the table, the sounds around him muted.

He barely heard the question, "What happened?" from Reid followed by Elle and JJ's tag-team explanation.

"Hotch's blood sugar tanked."

"He skipped lunch when he had to go all-lawyer on the judge to get the 'medicate Eddy Mays' order."

"He missed dinner because he had to convince Mary Mays to sign the paper since she wouldn't listen to us."

"We've all skipped meals, Reid."

"Morgan's getting him something now."

Yet as they explained, they never let go of his hands.

Aaron wasn't sure how he felt about it.

He decided that it was a moot point.

"Drink this," Elle told him as she pressed a small can of juice in his hand. Aaron obeyed and managed to down the liquid without spilling any despite how badly his hands were shaking. Elle then snapped, "Peanut butter Combos? Jesus, Morgan! I said sandwich. Sandwich!"

"Hey! My sister has sugar issues," Morgan retorted. "She swears by peanut butter crackers but Combos work, too." Aaron felt the can being pulled from his grasp and the edges of a bag brushing his finger tips. Morgan's voice became hushed, "Reid, we're running out of time for Wally. It's supposed to get down to freezing tonight and if that kid is outside ..."

"Eat the Combos," JJ urged softly and he felt her push a piece into his hand. Elle moved away from him and he could hear her joining in the murmured conversation with Reid and Morgan.

But Aaron's attention zeroed in on Mary Mays, specifically that nagging feeling that had bothered him when he spoke to her this evening. Something was off, besides dealing with her son. He struggled to make the connection and then Gideon's nasty words about society matriarchs echoed in his mind.

He focused on the peanut-butter filled snack in his hand. "Her shoes aren't right."

"Hotch, just eat the pretzel," JJ soothed.

"No. Her shoes aren't right," Aaron repeated, louder. "She's wearing flats when she should be in heels."

"Okay, Hotch. I know things are little weird for you now …"

"No, you don't understand." He dragged his gaze to meet JJ's. "Mary Mays' maiden name is Gwathmey, an old Tidewater family. Old south. Old money. A lot of tradition there. A lot of reputation to protect. There's a certain way to dress. Appearance is crucial."

"Hotch …" Reid's tone was gentle, soft.

"She's not protecting her son," Aaron interrupted. His hands were shaking again. He swallowed hard. "She's protecting herself." He forced himself to meet Reid's gaze. "She knows where Wally is. She's visited him. That's why she's not wearing heels. Wherever he is, it's not easy to get to. He's still alive because she hasn't figured out how to solve the problem with the family reputation intact."

#########

Usually, after one of the Team made a case-breaking deduction based on an unorthodox source, good-natured teasing ensued, especially when it was something as esoteric as a woman's shoes. Especially when it was someone other than Gideon or Reid who made the connection.

There was none of that following the successful rescue of Wally Brisbane.

The flight back to Quantico was excruciatingly quiet. Although Hotch regained his sense of self enough to confront Mary Mays and convince her to reveal the location of Wally Brisbane (he was the only one with the social clout to do so), he knew that his teammates—especially Gideon—could see through the façade. He turned down offers to play Snack Mix Poker and M&M Gin Rummy, which he had never done before. As they deplaned, JJ suggested dinner at the Auld Dubliner, which was something that Hotch always did.

It was the first time Hotch took a pass.

He went home to the cold silence of his apartment. He sat in the dark, fully dressed, because he didn't have the energy do anything else.

His past, in all its ugly glory, had been laid out for the Team to see. The only consolation was that he'd been able to tap into those horrors and come up with a lead.

_Gideon will take credit_, his mind whispered. _He'll use it to justify verbally attacking me in front of the team. He'll say that it was the only way to make me get into the mindset of Mary Mays._ It was quickly followed by, _Reid warned you. He tried to intervene, but you turned him down_.

Aaron pulled his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around his legs.

_You were so dead-set on proving you could handle yourself …_

_You showed them how pathetic you really were._

_You're weaker than the weakest woman! Turn in your badge now, boy. Give yourself the dignity of resigning before Reid fires your ass. You know how fast this rumor is going to go around the BAU. You remember what happened when Gerald from the second unit had a full-blown panic attack on that crime scene in Orlando! Yours was much, much worse._

Sharp knocks at his front door jolted Aaron out of his thoughts. He glanced at the clock on his cable box: 10:12. There was only one person who would dare to visit so late—Reid—so Aaron sat there, hoping his unit chief would go away.

The knocks came again, this time in a distinct "Shave and a Haircut" pattern. Aaron wearily got to his feet, because he knew that Reid wouldn't leave until he answered the door. Hell, Reid might even use the spare key that the chief had for everyone on the team.

As Hotch opened the door, Reid didn't wait for the invitation; he marched in and over to the couch. He flicked on the end table lamp and then returned to the door. He closed it, locked it, and then led Hotch over to the couch where they sat down.

"I want to apologize for what happened with Gideon," Reid said without preamble. "I let the situation get out of hand."

Aaron's response was automatic: "You can't blame yourself for someone else's actions."

"True, but I _can_ blame myself for not taking stronger action when I should have," he replied. "I've spoken to Gideon. What he did was unprofessional—no matter what rationalization he may give for it—and jeopardized the effectiveness of the team. Elle, Morgan and JJ want to file grievances, but have agreed that if you chose not to file a complaint, they will follow your lead.

"However, that does not preclude the actions I've taken to stabilize the team. Effective today, Gideon is on administrative leave and has been ordered to undergo a series of evaluations to determine his fitness not only in the field, but as an agent in whole." He let out a breath. "You were correct about last time he underwent the psych reviews. I did allow Gideon to pass after Boston because I want to believe that every single one of us can bounce back from every single thing."

"Sir …"

"Aaron, what Gideon did was inexcusable," Reid said, anger coloring his voice. "To your credit, you did not retaliate. It speaks to your character. To your integrity. You could have returned the favor and profiled him. He's not that hard to decipher and his sins are far worse than yours."

Aaron coughed hard as he shook his head. He choked out, "I didn't say anything because I … I _couldn't_."

"You experienced an episode of moderate to severe hypoglycemia."

"That wasn't why."

"It was a huge part of it, Aaron," Reid argued. "I know what I saw. Under normal circumstances, even with what was said, you would have handled it differently. You wouldn't have almost passed out."

Aaron pursed his lips, unable to think of anything to say.

Reid placed gentle hand on his shoulder. "Morgan, JJ and Elle came to your defense, because they consider you a good friend. They admire and respect you. They still do as do I. That hasn't changed." He gave a light squeeze.

"Stop."

"To your credit, you were able to take what happened and turn it into a positive. You gave us the break we needed."

"Please," he begged hoarsely. "Stop."

"You don't like compliments."

"_Please_."

"Fair enough." There was another squeeze.

"Thank you, sir," because it was the appropriate thing to say.

"You do know that we're off the clock. Officially."

Aaron closed his eyes. He hung his head. He felt he shakes return and Reid tightened his grip. He managed to get out, "Thank you, Spencer," because maybe if he addressed Reid by his first name, his boss would leave.

"Aaron," Reid chided softly. "I'm here as your friend."

He flinched but Reid's hand stayed on his shoulder. Aaron scowled as he confessed, "I didn't listen to you. I should have, but I didn't. I was arrogant."

"Your reasoning was … well, it made some sense at the time," Reid replied. "I don't think it was arrogance." He squeezed Aaron's shoulder again. There was a lengthy pause before he added, "The team's on stand down for the next four days. Before you begin thinking that it's because of what happened … well … We would have been on stand-down anyway," Reid said as he moved his hand away. "I don't want you to feel guilty about that."

"I'll try not to."

"I am concerned though."

Aaron straightened, lifting his chin and meeting Reid's gaze. "I can do this job." He almost tacked on a 'sir' but pressed his lips together instead.

"If you'd let me finish, I would have said, 'about your blood sugar,'" Reid replied, lips quirking slightly. "It's not the first time you've gotten too caught up with a case and have missed meals." He settled back against the couch. "As Elle said, we've all done it and we're usually pretty good about watching each other, but the severity of your hypoglycemic episode cannot be dismissed lightly."

Aaron didn't buy the whole 'blood sugar' explanation, but it was still a graceful out that he latched on to. "I don't have a physician here yet."

"I'm happy to make recommendations, if you'd like."

"I would like that, thank you."

"You're welcome." Reid shifted a little. "I don't see it as a hindrance to the job. Just something that you need to be aware of and take note of. There are some vulnerabilities that we have control over. That is one of them."

He echoed, "Vulnerabilities," because that was what Gideon had waited for: Aaron to be at his weakest, just as Reid predicted those months ago. It made him shudder.

"As compassionate as Gideon can be, he can also be mean-spirited," Spencer said sadly, immediately understanding the reference Aaron made. "While I'm not defending him, I don't think his issue is with you personally. In any other circumstance, I believe that Gideon would have accepted you outright, without issue."

"It's what I represent."

"Yes. Unfortunately, yes." Reid paused and cleared his throat a little. "I'll stay as long as you need tonight."

Aaron's almost snapped back that he didn't need a babysitter but stopped when he saw the look on Reid's face. It was open, honest, and full of concern.

The other man continued, "We don't have to talk. If you want to sit in the dark, well, we can do that. But I've found that sometimes having someone else here, one who has seen what we've seen and experienced what we've experienced, helps. It's the loneliness that can be overwhelming."

For a while, Aaron didn't say anything. He just stared at the coffee table and mulled over what Reid had said.

Finally, he got out, "I … I'd like that."

Then, they just sat there in silence. Reid moved away but didn't fidget, just sat calmly and quietly. Aaron closed his eyes, trying to absorb the peace that Reid seemed to radiate.

He wasn't sure when he fell asleep.

And thankfully, instead of a nightmare, his mind decided to focus on Reid.

Aaron's dreams about Reid tended to start off the same way: Reid's slender fingers caressing Aaron's temple and jaw, that soft voice calling his name, and Aaron tilting his head so the taller man could swoop down for a kiss. Aaron would then reach out, slide one hand around Reid's waist, and card his fingers of his other hand through Reid's short locks before resting on the nape of Reid's neck. He would tug slightly and then … then their lips would meet.

Always electric.

Always intense yet with that slow burn of savoring the taste of each other.

Always erotic because it was scandalous and forbidden and all those other adjectives to describe something Aaron wasn't supposed to indulge in.

But these were his dreams, so it was okay.

Some nights it was more tangible than others. Tonight? Oh, it definitely was going to be one of the better ones.

No fingers caressing his face, just a nudge on his shoulder and the soft, "Aaron."

Aaron turned slightly and reached out blindly like he always did, fingers brushing past the ever-present holster and latching on to the belt loop. Reid's head wasn't where it was supposed to be, so he slid his hand around that slender neck and gently pulled.

"Aaron," Reid repeated and, this time, Aaron's shoulder was shaken a bit harder.

"Mmm-hmm." He never really liked talking in these situations. He also liked to keep his eyes closed and just _feel_. Reid still wasn't positioned how he was supposed to be, so Aaron shifted and tugged. Reid's body didn't move, but Aaron could sense the man's face close to his. Growling a little, he cupped Reid's firm ass and pulled harder.

Reid landed against him with a gasp, legs straddling Aaron's hips, and Aaron dove in for a kiss.

He missed Reid's mouth and got the man's nose instead. He chuckled, because they were always playful when they were like this, and then he tried again.

"Aaron," Reid called out, this time a bit more insistent and there was more pressure on his shoulders. Aaron rolled his hips up, savoring the erection bumping against his own and the gasp the contact elicited.

This time, his mouth met Reid's dry, firm lips. He licked and gently nibbled.

"Aaron …"

"Please," he murmured.

There was a sigh. He felt Reid's forehead rest against his. "Aaron, you're not even fully awake."

"I'm not supposed to be," Aaron replied. Another long sigh, but Aaron was not deterred. He knew how this dream went. Reid resisted because he was the unit chief but then he allowed himself to take advantage of what was being offered.

"This isn't a dream."

"It's always a dream." He found Reid's lips again and tried to kiss him.

"Do you even know who I am?"

"Of course, sir. Spencer. Sir. _Spen_-sir." He chuckled and nibbled on the man's lip. "Who else?"

That earned a light laugh. "Well, at least I'm comforted by that fact."

Aaron squeezed the firm buttock in his palm. "Want you."

"You're still half-wake."

"So? Never-Never land."

"I don't want to be a figment of your imagination." A sudden sharp pain to his left earlobe jolted Aaron awake.

Then, the realization of just _what _was going on hit him.

His boss was straddling his lap.

Aaron had one hand firmly on Reid's ass and another cupping the back of Reid's head.

Reid's face was mere inches from his own.

_Oh God. Oh God, oh God, oh God. This is real. This is …_ His hands immediately flew off of Reid's body and clutched his couch. "Sir … sir…" he stuttered. "_Sir_."

"_Spen-_sir, I believe you said," Reid corrected with an amused smile on his face. "Good. You're awake."

"I … I…" Aaron made a gurgling sound, his breathing all over the place as his mind raced. _I just sexually assaulted my boss. Oh God._ _What to say … what to say …_

"It's okay," the chief soothed. "I'm honored that you think of me that way."

"Sir …"

Fingers ghostly along the side of Aaron's face. "If this is what you need, then this is what you need."

"Sir …"

"Sexual release is an accepted relaxation method," he continued, thumb swiping across Aaron's lower lip before gliding down Aaron's throat. "There's nothing to be ashamed of. And as I mentioned earlier, there are very few people who understand what we see, who can fathom what we deal with on a daily basis. I'm not offended. As I said, I'm flattered. But I wanted to make sure you were cognizant of your actions, that you knew it was really me instead of, well, any number of persons."

Instead of the apology he was desperate to offer, Aaron blurted, "Then you've done this before."

"It's been a while, but yes," Reid answered. "I wanted informed consent before we continued. I didn't want you to feel even worse about yourself than you already do." His hands now rested on Aaron's shoulders. "May I kiss you, Aaron?"

Aaron stared. He stared some more. His brain struggled to process Reid's words. His mind latched on to, _Informed consent._ It was the only reason why Reid stopped him. He breathed out, "Okay," as he closed his eyes.

Then, Reid leaned forward, pressed his lips against Aaron's, and delivered a kiss that short-circuited Aaron's brain. Aaron's jaw dropped open and Reid's tongue leisurely explored Aaron's mouth. It took a while for him to catch up, for him to respond to the gentle ministrations. His grip tightened on Reid's ass and Reid moaned, rolling his hips forward.

Aaron wasn't sure how long they kissed and, well, dry-humped. He wanted more, but couldn't find the words, not with how the dream he'd been having since he joined the BAU was playing out live. Reid's fingers played with his tie, loosening the knot and then unbuttoning the top button.

"What do you need?" Reid asked softly, fingertips stroking Aaron's bared throat.

"I … I don't know."

"May I touch you?"

The 'yes' came out as an embarrassing squeak.

"Thank you," Reid murmured and he pressed his hand to Aaron's chest before moving it downwards. The chief's lips were warm and dry. Gentle yet forceful. Firm but not bruising.

Aaron wanted to be humiliated by the sounds that Reid elicited from him, but he was too enraptured by one of his fantasies playing out. And when Reid palmed his erection through the thick material of his trousers, Aaron arched and his left hand latched onto Reid's ass again. "Please. Oh, God, _please_."

"Move to the floor," Reid instructed and somehow, someway, they both slid down to the carpeting without losing contact. Reid's fingers nimbly undid Aaron's belt, button and fly. "Are you sure?"

"Please," Aaron begged as he clumsily pawed at Reid's pants.

"Shhh," the chief soothed and then nuzzled Aaron's neck. "Let me take care of you first."

All Aaron could do was nod as Reid's long fingers slipped past the waistband of Aaron's boxers, teased the pubic hairs, and then lightly stroked Aaron's dick. Aaron whined and thrust forward. "Please."

Reid began kissing him on the lips, exploring his mouth as his thumb circled the head of Aaron's cock, smearing precum over his shaft. Aaron couldn't stop moving or moaning, pushing himself against Reid's hand. Finally, Reid's fingers circled his dick and tightened to an exquisite pressure. Reid's lips were against Aaron's ear, his voice a throaty purr. "Fuck my hand."

Aaron obeyed.

"That's it," Reid coaxed him. "You're close, aren't you?"

"Always with you," Aaron admitted, unable to be embarrassed because all he could think about was _wannacumwannacumwannacum_. When Reid began twisting his hand, Aaron let out another whine and pistoned his hips harder. "Close."

"Then let go," Reid told him and then kissed him hard.

The orgasm hit and Aaron's entire body shook. He knew he keened loudly but _Goditwassogood_. Reid milked his cock yet knew the moment when it got too much. He pulled his hand away and rock back on his haunches.

Aaron took great shuddering gulps of air, his body shaking and his mind completely blank.

"Look at me," Reid commanded softly and Aaron obeyed.

Then, he watched as Reid lifted his cum-covered hand to his lips and then lapped the ejaculate from his skin, savoring it with a small, satisfied smile. Stunned, Aaron just stared. Reid's lips tipped up serenely. "Savory," he confided with a little waggle of his eyebrows. "You're not the only one with fantasies, Aaron."

He watched in awe as Spencer licked the rest of his cum off his hand. Still breathing heavily, Aaron's brain finally kicked back into gear. He reached forward, shaking. His hands slid up Reid's thighs, but Reid gentled grasped his wrists.

"I appreciate the thought," his smile was warm, genuine, and luminous. "But watching you get off like that …" Reid moved their hands until Aaron could feel the wetness radiating from Reid's crotch. "I haven't cum in my pants without stimulation in …" he narrowed his eyes a little before continuing, "Sixteen years, eight months and four days." Reid released him, running the back of his dry hand down the side of Aaron's face. "Thank you."

"Sir …"

"_Spen_-sir," the chief admonished with a large grin. "I had my hand down you trousers. Your tongue was in my mouth. And I had a tasty snack. I believe we should dispense with the formalities."

"Spencer."

With that, Reid slowly got to his feet, joints popping as he did. The wet stain on his crotch was quite obvious.

"I have … I have sweatpants," Aaron stuttered.

Reid beamed at him. "Those would be great. Thank you."

Somehow, Aaron managed to scramble to his feet, trousers still unzipped and unbuttoned, and belt undone. He dashed to his bedroom and yanked out a pair of track pants from his drawer. When he returned, Reid already stripped out of his dress pants and was standing in the middle of Aaron's apartment wearing tight-fitting boxer briefs, a dress shirt and a sweater vest.

It was one of the sexiest things Aaron had ever seen. He held out the pants and bashfully looked away as Reid accepted them. He listened as Reid put them on, wanting to laugh at the sounds of the chief hopping on one foot but found he couldn't.

_I just had sex with my boss_. Oh God.

"Aaron?"

He jerked his gaze to meet Reid's calm expression. He knew his face conveyed his guilt by the frown that tugged at Reid's lips. Reid strode forward, sliding his hand to cup Aaron's jaw. "You have nothing to be ashamed of."

"Yes, sir."

"_Spen_-sir." And this time, Reid definitely sounded annoyed.

"Spencer," Aaron repeated.

"I'm here for you," he continued. "Friend. Confidante. Lover. Whatever you need."

Surely it was the after-effects of the orgasm that made Aaron blurt, "Why me?"

"Because you're an amazing man. Strong. Talented. Observant. Compassionate. Passionate. I could go on, but I have a feeling it will only embarrass you, which I don't wish to do. You're one of the most courageous persons I know, and I never want you to lose what makes you Aaron Hotchner."

The compliments made his eyes burn. Thankfully, Reid pulled him into a loose embrace, Aaron's forehead on his shoulder. They stayed like that a few minutes, Reid stroking his back with motions of comfort, not rousing.

"It's late," Reid finally said. "As much as I would like to share your bed, I don't think it would be a good idea right now. Maybe next time."

"Next time?" Aaron asked, damning his voice for squeaking on the words like that.

Reid's brow furrowed. "If you would like. There's no pressure."

"You …" God, he couldn't bring himself to utter the words.

"As I said, I'm here for you. Friend. Confidant. Lover. Whatever you need." Reid leaned in for one last, lingering kiss. "Get some sleep." He cradled Aaron's cheek. "If you wish to do something over the next few days … museum, opera, or even just sitting in the park and profiling strangers … call me."

"Yes, sir."

"_Spen_-sir," the chief corrected with a lopsided smile. "And it's not an order. If this is a one time thing, then so be it. If, however, if it is something you would like to continue, I am interested."

"You're interested."

"You're a very attractive man, Aaron. You're intelligent and you listen. What's not to like?" Reid stepped back, dropping his hands to his sides. He looked utterly ridiculous with ill-fitting heather gray sweatpants that clashed with his formal dress shirt and vest. He picked up his folded trousers from the sofa. He leaned forward, brushing a brief kiss against Aaron's lips. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," he automatically replied.

"I'll see myself out." With that, Reid turned away and left Aaron's apartment, with Aaron standing dazed in his living room.

#########


	10. Book 1, Chapter 9: Aftermath

_**Keep the Suit, Lose the Nickname**__**: A Criminal Minds AU  
><strong>__**Part 9: Aftermath of Strange Arrangements**_  
><strong>Author:<strong> Kuria Dalmatia  
><strong>CharactersPairing:** Hotch/Reid, Season 1's BAU  
><strong>RatingsWarnings:** FROA/R (sexual situations, adult content, profanity)

**Summary:** Three days ago, Hotch had sex with his boss. Not only does he have to deal with that when they all return to the office, but Hotch has to the Team in the aftermath of the events in Tennessee.

TIMELINE: Immediately follows the events in _Part 8: Spen-Sir_

COMMENTS: See Intro for additional comments, archiving info & disclaimers.

**######**

For the next three days, Aaron vacillated between horror (_Oh God,_ _I sexually assaulted my boss on my couch and he's going to fire me!_) to giddiness _(I had sex with my boss on my couch and he wants to do it again!)_ to humiliation _(The only reason your boss had sex with you on your couch was because you're pathetic and he felt sorry for you.)_

He didn't have nightmares about the BAU, just explicit dreams about sliding down Spencer's tight-fitting boxer-briefs and sucking him off while in the middle of his living room. Then there was the dream where he bent Spencer over the back of the couch and fucked him hard until they were both spent. Oh, and the one where a bare-chested Spencer knelt before him and Aaron stroked his cock until he gave his boss a pearl necklace and Spencer came without being touched.

And Aaron's cock _did_ ache because when he woke up from those dreams, he couldn't help but jack off. He masturbated more in the past three days than he could remember in years. The orgasms were all good, leaving him breathless and shaky.

What caught in his mind the most was Spencer's simple statement of: _If this is a one time thing, then so be it. If, however, if it is something you would like to continue, I am interested. _Chivalrous, of course, because over the last ten months of working closely with Spencer Reid, it was a description that immediately came to mind. Spencer wasn't aloof, just careful with his interactions.

So during the waking hours, Aaron did everything he could _not_ to think about the fact that, well, his boss could also very well become a fuck buddy.

Not that Aaron ever had one. And he didn't want Spencer strictly as the 'go to hand' when things went bad. No. He wanted … He stopped himself.

Compartmentalizing was always one of Aaron's greatest strengths. Therefore, that was what he did with Spencer.

Aaron used the three days off to get caught up on the mundane things, like bills, cleaning and groceries. He was even able to get in two rounds of golf at Little Bennett municipal course. The company during his golf outings was less than stellar; Aaron didn't have a regular golfing partner yet and his schedule really didn't allow him much time to be a course regular. So, he was paired up when he went since the course didn't allow single players to have tee times. When asked what he did for a living, he answered with the vague, "I'm an analyst with the FBI," since the last thing he wanted to do on the links was discuss serial killers.

Regardless, golf was a way for him to relax. It was the serenity he found on the links that he took with him to the office on Tuesday morning, his first day back after the Harringtonville case. The bullpen was quiet, the B and C teams out in the field working serial arson and rapist cases, respectively. Hotch allowed himself a single glance towards Gideon's office, noting the door being closed the blinds drawn. He wondered what Reid had told the other teams, if anything. While the BAU had a rumor mill, it wasn't nearly as active as Hotch had expected.

Still, the second-in-command being on a leave of absence or vacation or however Reid termed it to the rest of the unit …

Hotch mentally shook himself. He couldn't dwell on it. He knew better.

"Please tell me Connick didn't make the coffee this morning," Morgan said as he entered the kitchenette where Hotch was pouring his own cup.

"He's in upstate New York on that arson case," Hotch told him as he held up the carafe. "I made this batch, so no bitching."

"I never bitch about your coffee, Hotch," the other agent shot back. "Hell, yours is the reason we have eight a.m. shadows." He fished out a mug from the cabinet and held it out.

Hotch chuckled as he poured. He was about to make a teasing comment about razors when a silver travel mug was suddenly next to Morgan's ceramic one.

Reid's partially empty mug. Reid's pleased tone as he declared, "Could you top me off, please?"

Hotch could feel the embarrassment burn his cheeks as his mind went straight to the gutter. _I'll top you any day of the week. How about in your office in ten minutes? _

All the pep talks Hotch gave himself over the past three days, how he would not allow what happened in his apartment—_I had sex with my boss on my couch!_—to affect his performance, all went out the window.

"Yes, sir," he managed to get out, gaze focused exclusively on the two coffee cups in front of him. It took enormous amount of willpower to keep his hand steady as he filled Reid's mug, watching as the black liquid swirled with the light beige contents. He knew Morgan was teasing Reid about his habit like Morgan did every morning and Reid threw out some odd statistic as usual, but the roar in his ears drowned out the words.

"Thanks," Reid said warmly.

"You're welcome, sir," he replied as he finished pouring the cup. He stepped back, turned and slid the carafe back on to the burner.

"Roundtable at eleven," Reid told them and by the slight squeak of his Chuck Taylors, Hotch knew the man had retreated to his office.

Morgan stayed.

_Shit._

Because Morgan was nosey as hell and wouldn't let up until he got the answers he wanted.

When Hotch turned back around, Morgan took a step closer. "You know he won't judge you, right?" Morgan asked, voice pitched low. "What happened in Tennessee … he's not going to hold that against you. Hell, none of us are. You've got to believe that. We got your back."

It was a bit insulting to be told something that obvious, but it was an out Hotch was willing to accept. He still couldn't bring himself to meet the man's eyes. If he did, he knew that Morgan would figure out the source of his embarrassment wasn't necessarily what happened in Tennessee. "I know."

"Good." There was a long pause before Morgan clasped his shoulder. "Look, our AL is coming up in two months. Don't know if you've made any plans or anything, but a friend of mine is offering sick rates at this Jamaican resort he manages. Four-stars. Lots of single ladies in teeny bikinis. Elle's already in."

"Whoa-whoa-whoa," Elle interrupted as she breezed into the kitchenette. Hotch looked up at the sound of her voice and wondered just what the hell she had witnessed. Hopefully, not his reaction to Reid's 'top' comment. She wasn't as nosey as Morgan, but she was far more likely to draw the right conclusions. "You promised me men, Morgan."

"There are men. Men and women. Lots of lovely single people," he clarified as he stepped away from Hotch. "Private beaches and late night dancing and those crazy drinks with umbrellas in them."

"You're getting a kickback on this, aren't you?" Elle asked suspiciously. She fetcher a cup and both men moved so she could get to the coffeemaker. "The more people you get to go along, the bigger your discount."

"Nothing like that, Miss Elle," Morgan waggled a finger at her. "Just saying we all could use some vacay where the most we worry about is what drink to order next."

While Hotch knew his AL was approaching and knew that Reid made the effort that each team was off together at the same time, he hadn't really thought about _what_ he'd be doing. He thought about spending time with his little brother, who was in his final year at Georgetown. Knowing Sean, he would be scoffed at; even being in the same city, the two rarely crossed paths. Still, Hotch struggled to remember the last time he had an honest-to-God vacation that didn't involve him moving to a new place to live.

He glanced over to Morgan. "Do they have golf?"

Morgan's mouth dropped open. "I'm talking about beaches and bikinis and you're thinking about _golf?_"

"So he likes to swing something else around besides his dick, Morgan," Elle shot back as she stood next to Hotch. Hotch couldn't help but laugh. Elle could be as foul-mouthed as any hardened LEO, but she rarely let it loose in the BAU. She looped her arm through his. "C'mon, Hotch. I've got the website bookmarked."

**###########**

The day's roundtable meeting was simply a review of consults they were working on. Maybe because Gideon had been gone for those months after Boston that JJ, Morgan, Elle and Garcia acted as if Gideon _not_ being there was normal. Aside from the embarrassing encounter in the kitchen that morning, Hotch skillfully avoided any one-on-one conversations with his boss.

He knew it was only a matter of time when Elle and Morgan were going to call him on it, for them to realize it was something more than Gideon's verbal attack in Tennessee that made Hotch flustered around the unit chief.

_Got to get over it,_ he scolded himself.

Reid certainly acted like nothing untoward had happened between them. Then again, Reid's poker face was legendary within the BAU. Reid only allowed people to see what he wanted them to see.

Sighing inwardly, Hotch logged of his laptop and began packing up for the day. It was almost six, and while the BAU really didn't have set office hours, most people called it quits at five-thirty. Elle was already gone and Morgan was probably lurking in Garcia's lair like he usually did before he headed home. Hotch decided to get a run in at the Bureau's facilities before he headed back to his apartment. Exercise always helped him focus.

The men's room wasn't particularly crowded, so Hotch went directly to his personal locker. He spun through the combination for his padlock, 11-6-8. It was the modified release date of his favorite Beatles album, and also a pattern of numbers that it would be difficult to guess. After all, most people chose mundane things like birthdays and anniversaries. The release date of an album? Not so much.

The lock clicked open and he swung open the door. When Hotch looked inside, he was stunned to see a pair of neatly folded gray sweatpants in a dry cleaning bag and sitting on top of his running shoes.

Hotch only owned one pair of heather gray pants.

The pair that he'd given Reid four nights ago.

The night that, _You're not the only one with fantasies, Aaron,_ was scorched in his mind.

Hotch's mouth went dry.

He closed the locker door. He put the padlock back on.

He gathered up his things and went back to the office, knowing that Reid always worked until at least seven on the first day back after stand-downs. The bullpen was deserted when he arrived, but Reid was still there. The chief's door was open as were his blinds.

Aaron wasn't sure what possessed him to march up the ramp and enter Reid's office without knocking or even asking permission. He closed the door, dropped his briefcase by it, crossed his arms over his chest, and demanded, "How the hell did you know my locker combination?"

Reid looked up from the mess of paperwork around him and then blinked slowly. He was wearing his glasses, which he must have put on after everyone left for the day. Hotch would never classify Reid as being vain, but he did know the chief rarely wore his glasses in public. Reid set his pen down and leaned back in his chair.

"It takes an average twelve seconds to crack a standard combination padlock," the chief replied.

Whatever he was expecting Reid to say, it certainly wasn't that. Aaron stared. "Twelve seconds."

"It's a basic recovery method," Reid explained light-heartedly. "Now, I could have used a straight edge razor, aluminum can, a Sharpie marker, and scissor to make a shim, but usually the twelve-second method works especially with older locks. Actually … I can do it in about eight." He grinned a little. "I can do the math in my head." Then, his expression turned serious as did his tone. "I apologize for violating your personal space, but I wasn't sure how else to, well, return your clothing without drawing too much attention." He shrugged. "Handing them to you in the bullpen was out of the question."

For a moment, Aaron glowered. It was a perfectly reasonable explanation although, "The execution of your plan is unnerving."

"I do apologize," he said earnestly. "It wasn't meant to embarrass or unsettle you."

Aaron was forced to look away, because he could see the honesty as well as the regret in Reid's face, even at this distance. "I … know." He frowned. "It's just that …" He wasn't sure he could explain, so he fell silent.

"Given what we do, having an article of clothing show up unexpectedly in what you perceived as a secure location isn't the best way to end the day. Or start it. Or anytime, really, for that matter."

There was something in Reid's tone that washed away Aaron's anger over the padlock and uncertainty about their professional relationship. Reid was always so upfront about possible triggers in their line of work, perhaps so that they would be able to recognize them for what they were: a byproduct of the constant exposure to the worst of the worst.

It was that which made him tease, "Actually, I was going to say you were showing off."

Reid snorted with amusement. "So, you're not going to arrest me for breaking and entering?"

"I'll let you off with a warning this time."

"Thank you kindly, Agent."

"Don't let it happen again," Aaron warned, using his best authoritative voice.

"I believe I have learned my lesson."

"Good."

There were a few beats of silence before both of them snickered a little. "Have a good evening, Aaron."

"You're not heading out?"

"Budget reports," Reid answered as he gestured to the file on his desk. "Justifying the use of a private jet usually requires an avalanche of numbers." He picked up his pen. "Some days, I think I should get a degree in accounting and pass the CPA exam so I don't have keep answering, 'Are you sure these numbers are right?' from the panel."

"Do you need help?" he asked, surprising himself with making the offer. _From angry to helpful in two seconds_, he thought ruefully. _You have it so bad for him. _He briefly wondered if budgeting was something that Gideon usually did. Aaron mentally shook himself; Gideon wouldn't stoop to do something as mundane.

The chief's smile grew warm and appreciative although he declined with, "Thank you, but no. I'm almost done anyway."

"Good night, sir."

They stared at each other.

Aaron could almost hear the correction _Spen-sir_. He swallowed hard and tried to sound normal as he said, "See you tomorrow."

"Tomorrow, then."

**###########**


	11. Book 1, Chap 10: Return of the Deposed

_**Keep the Suit, Lose the Nickname**__**: A Criminal Minds AU  
><strong>__**Part 10: Return of the Deposed**_  
><strong>Author:<strong> Kuria Dalmatia  
><strong>CharactersPairing:** Hotch/Reid, Season 1's BAU  
><strong>RatingsWarnings:**FRT/PG (profanity)

**Summary:** Hotch gets blindsided by Gideon's return. An apology in the kitchen of the BAU wasn't going to earn forgiveness for being humiliated in front of the rest of the team. Then again, Hotch would be even more unnerved (and pissed as hell) if Gideon did a public apology. Yet as unnerving as that confrontation was, nothing prepared Hotch for dealing with an enraged Spencer Reid.

**TIMELINE:** Two weeks after _Part 9: Aftermath of Strange Arrangements_

**COMMENTS:** See Intro for additional comments, archiving info & disclaimers.  
>Thanks to ice_ziggee and Pluma Desatada for the push to revise this chapter to what it should have been in the first place…<p>

**ADDITIONAL AUTHOR'S NOTES AT THE END**

**######**

After the "sweatpants confrontation" (as Hotch's mind decided to label it), there were no more light-hearted, teasing conversations between him and Reid. For the past two weeks, the chief had been putting in stupidly late hours and horrifyingly early mornings.

Hotch knew that budgets were finished during their first week back from Tennessee. Performance evaluations were completed seven weeks before that. While there were always cases to be worked, there wasn't the crushing press of immediacy and travel that they sometimes faced. So it was two full weeks of nothing but paperwork.

Reid was distant and distracted; the few times Hotch tried to engage him in casual conversation, Reid obliged but was curt and cool. Gone was the banter and slightly teasing tones that Hotch came to associate with their exchanges. It was almost as if the night at Hotch's apartment—_I had sex with my boss on my couch!_—and the subsequent sweatpants conversation never happened.

Still, Reid always paused when the conversation drew to an awkward close, met Hotch's gaze, and offer a small apologetic smile. Sometimes, he would settle his hand on Hotch's shoulder, just like he had done that night in Hotch's apartment, and give a gentle squeeze.

"Paperwork," he would day by way of explanation and probably hoping to take the sting out of the rejection. Maybe he was trying to say, _I have no regrets about what happened at your apartment,_ or _What's happening has nothing to do with you,_ as well.

Hotch would dutifully repeat, "Paperwork," and forced himself not to be hurt about it.

The additional paperwork was more than likely due to Gideon's absence. He felt guilty for enjoying the time because for the first time in his tenure at the BAU, Hotch wasn't being constantly criticized by the senior agent, but it also had their Team one person down.

Someone had to take up the slack from Gideon being out, and Reid was the type of man who would take on the task so it wouldn't burden the others.

But Hotch was curious as to why there was suddenly so much more "paperwork" for Reid to do. Gideon didn't strike him as the type to actually have any; such mundane things were beneath him. All Gideon seemed interested in was the hunt and being able to say, "I saved this person." Hotch had seen the photos in Gideon's office. He knew that Gideon explained it so casually with, "You could call them my family."

The dozens of picture frames on the credenza facing Gideon's desk made Hotch think "trophy." Trophies could be good things and they could be bad things, but putting those photos in the context of how the BAU interpreted trophies? Not a good thing.

Hotch wanted to get the Team's opinion on Reid's suddenly increased workload, but he was leery to do so. So far, Elle, Morgan and JJ had not brought up what happened in Harringtonville directly. The only reference to the brutal confrontation were packages of peanut butter crackers, peanut butter Combos, and Slim Jims that just showed up on day in his top desk drawer and tucked in his briefcase. And when Hotch tried to thank them individually in private, all three promptly claimed that they had no idea what he was talking about.

_We move on_, was one of Reid's credos.

Clearly, Elle, Morgan and JJ had. Garcia didn't act any differently, so it was quite possible she had no idea what happened in Tennessee either. It wasn't as if Hotch was going to stop by her lair and ask; he wasn't that foolish because if she didn't know, she would fuss over him even more than she usually did.

Asking outside the immediate team?

Not a chance.

The only solution was to ask Reid himself. While he was tempted just to show up at Reid's home like Reid had done for him, the man's office hours made it nearly impossible to guess _when_ he would actually be there. So Hotch opted for an early morning—seven fifteen since most of the BAU arrived around quarter after eight—and made sure that the beat up Ziploc bag that he carried sugar and sweetener packets was in his jacket pocket.

Carrying in a gallon of brewed tea could trigger a rash of rumors about Hotch trying to get in good with the chief. Coffee, on the other hand, wouldn't be seen as too far off; Reid was notorious for taking an entire carafe into his office and forgetting he had it at the end of the day. It was why the BAU had eight pots for their coffee maker because three of them usually ended up in Reid's office. The notes that housekeeping left taped to Reid's door were sometimes the highlight of the morning.

Confident with his plan—he'd make a fresh pot and bring that along with other necessary items from the kitchen to Reid's office—Hotch breezed through the glass doors of the BAU at seven. He would have enough time to get settled at his desk while the coffee brewed and then hopefully have a conversation with Reid.

Yet, Reid's office was dark. The blinds were open and the door was closed. If the chief was sleeping in there—which most of the BAU had money riding on—the blinds would be closed. Reid was very careful about his BAU image. Here, he was chief. He didn't get caught in potentially embarrassing situations like drooling in his sleep on his office couch.

Hotch heard cabinets closing in the kitchenette and then smiled a little. Maybe this was a "late morning" for their chief. He quickly made his way over, hoping that his expression didn't convey too much eagerness as he walked in …

And found himself staring at Jason Gideon.

_Shit_.

Hotch felt his face momentarily freeze; his brain did the same thing. It didn't stop him from recognizing the flash in Gideon's eyes—_He's profiling you_—or jerking to a stop.

Gideon. Here. No prior warning. Not even a hint that the senior agent was on the comeback trail.

Not one word from Reid.

Not one message from Spencer.

_Friend. Confidant. Lover. Whatever you need._

Not one goddamn hint.

"Hotch," Gideon said pleasantly. His smile didn't quite reach his eyes, but it was there all the same. It was the expression Gideon used when talking to victims.

_I'm not a victim you can talk down to_, Hotch thought viciously, but his experience from years of confrontations like this kicked in. He shifted his briefcase to his left hand and extended his right. Manners. Pleasantries. Oh, he knew the drill. "Sir."

The handshake was crisp, efficient. There was no attempt from Gideon to crush his hand or establish dominance in his grip. It was cordial. Gideon continued to look at him as if he were studying some piece of evidence. His tone was on the edge of curious. "You're in early this morning."

"So are you," Hotch countered, keeping his tone light. Polite. Yet, his heart hammered in his chest and his mind struggled to come up with a strategy. He needed one _fast_.

Gideon's smile sharpening a little as he shrugged. "My first day back."

_Son of a bitch wants to play chess_, Hotch realized. _Fuck_.

Because in almost a year of dealing with the famed Jason Gideon, Hotch knew that the man had planned this confrontation in some form. Gideon had a game plan. This setting? The perfect environment. Early morning. No witnesses for at least another twenty minutes. Bullpen video cameras showing two men having a conversation in the kitchen, but without audio, all an observer had to go on was body language.

And both Gideon and Hotch excelled at neutral stances and bland expressions.

Suddenly, Hotch recalled Reid's words that night in his apartment. The praise he received in how he handled Gideon. Hotch had not retaliated. He couldn't. But maybe those moments of inaction caused by the shock of being profiled so ruthlessly and publicly were the key to dealing with Gideon.

Hotch could launch into a cruel profile of his own. As Reid had said, Gideon was not that hard to decipher, and Hazleton was dead because of Gideon's mistake. Hotch was confident in his abilities to argue the case. Details and phrasings began lining up in his mind with the rapid-fire precision that was essential to Hotch's courtroom success.

_We move on_, echoed in his mind. Hotch recalled the debate he had with Reid six months ago about Cadmean and Phyrric victories. Both meant the same: victory at a devastating cost.

Would winning this argument with Gideon mean the end of Hotch's career at the BAU?

Team stability.

That was what Reid strove for.

And Gideon here and now meant that the senior agent had cleared all the evaluations. Reid would have had to have authorized Gideon's reinstatement. So, it became the newly re-blessed elder statesman versus the power hungry Hot Shot.

Hotch was aware of the rumors about his aspirations within the BAU.

Hotch wasn't a coward. He didn't back down from a challenge. But … He wasn't stupid. He was strategic. He heard the coffeemaker sputter like it always did when it finished brewing. Hotch modulated his tone into his most pleasant, 'butter wouldn't melt in my mouth' voice in his arsenal. "Coffee?"

Gideon's eyebrows shot up in momentary surprise but his expression went quickly back to neutral. The senior agent then held up a bottle of water and made an apologetic noise. "Doctor says I should cut back."

Hotch nodded with a noncommittal "hmpf" but refused to say any more.

Another few tense seconds went by as he watched Gideon sort through the options for the conversation. Finally, Gideon let out a light laugh, shook his shoulders as if to loosen them, and cocked his head to the side. "We started off badly, didn't we?" When Hotch didn't respond, Gideon offered, "Let's start over then," sounding as reasonable and genuine as he did with any number of victims. He extended his hand. "Clean slate."

Hotch supposed it was as close to an apology as he was ever going to get. _As if Jason Gideon would ever apologize for what he did in Tennessee. He probably still sees it as a victory versus the UnSub_. Still, an apology in the kitchen of the BAU wasn't going to earn forgiveness for being humiliated in front of the rest of the team. Then again, Hotch would be even more unnerved (and pissed as hell) if Gideon did a public apology.

"Clean slate," Hotch repeated and shook Gideon's hand, forcing himself to keep it neutral.

But he wasn't going to forget what happened.

He wasn't going to trust this man that easily.

And he was damn sure that he would never allow Gideon to have his back.

Ever.

######

The parade in and out of Gideon's office was nauseating. It was mostly political; despite what happened in Boston, Gideon was still considered a career-maker although the vibe that Hotch got from his fellow agents was that Gideon simply wasn't well liked. Still, Gideon's name carried weight in other departments and cadets trailed after him like ducklings in order to say they had face time with the legend of the BAU. So as other agents trickled in to the office and saw Gideon's light on and door open, they made their way up to welcome him back.

Garcia, of course, was the most enthusiastic because that was … well… _her_. Hotch couldn't fault her—it wouldn't be fair—and he wasn't about to explain why, perhaps, she shouldn't treat Gideon's return like the profiler was some sort of king.

Garcia's voice carried as she admonished Gideon for not telling her that today was his first back from his 'vacation,' followed by an apology for not having a batch of Hamantaschen waiting for him. Jesus, the woman profiled them via baked goods.

Gideon's equally loud, "Oh, don't fuss over me," made Hotch twitch. He hoped to God that Elle and Morgan, who made no bones about keeping an eye on him this morning, wouldn't call him on it.

Hotch focused on his work, but couldn't stop glancing at the corner of his laptop to check what time it was. As the minutes wore on, his anger began to build, all focused on the single question: _Why didn't Reid tell me Gideon was coming back?_

Hell, a text wasn't that out of the question. Neither was a phone call. Or … or _something_.

Because how the hell else was Hotch supposed to interpret, _Friend. Confidant. Lover. Whatever you need._

The betrayal burned. Hard. Hotch mentally slapped himself.

_You showed Reid your 'vulnerability'… of course he's going to use it against you. He's a chief. You're a Hot Shot. It's the way of things._

By the time Reid finally showed up in the office at quarter after ten, Hotch had worked himself into a decent, righteous snit. Yet when he actually looked at Reid, his anger drained away.

Reid's suit was the one he only wore for VIP Bureau meetings or high-powered court cases. He was also wearing his glasses. Hotch didn't miss Reid's double-take as when the chief saw that Gideon was back. Reid's posture changed from slightly slumped to almost regal. His hands went to his sides. He walked with sure steps through the bullpen and directly to Gideon's office, barely acknowledging the greetings. It was the same stride he used when in court, the one he used to establish his authority.

_He didn't know_, Hotch's mind whispered. _That's why he didn't tell you. He didn't know Gideon was coming back_.

It made Hotch think of the advice Elle gave him the night of his 'welcome to the BAU' party after they returned from Palm Springs: never blindside the chief. She refused to elaborate, just gave Hotch a look that conveyed that the 'no blindside' rule was nonnegotiable. She then made him drink two shots of tequila.

Hotch observed the chief knocking on Gideon's door, offering that half-little wave that Hotch was still trying to figure out what meant, stepping inside, and promptly shutting the door. When Hotch turned back to his monitor, he noticed that Elle was still staring at Gideon's door. He wondered if she made the same conclusion as he did, that Reid didn't know Gideon was returning.

Someone other than Reid reinstated Gideon but didn't inform the chief.

Morgan's muffled "Damn" confirmed that Morgan realized what was going on as well.

Elle shook her head a little, arched an eyebrow at Hotch, and went back to work.

Gideon broke the 'no blindside' rule.

Then again, Gideon probably believed that rules didn't apply to him.

After ten minutes, Reid strode out of Gideon's office, leaving the door open, and went into his own. Reid closed the door. Hotch watched as the chief circled to his desk and dropped down into his chair.

A minute later, the bullpen filled with chimes and alerts from the agents' phones and computers. "Shit," Morgan said as he grabbed his mouse. "Forgot it was Randomized-Meeting-Time Wednesday."

While Reid did weekly roundtable meetings with all the teams, he met with each agent individually. Usually on Wednesdays and Reid had worked with Garcia to develop a program that enabled him to randomize the meeting times based on an agent's Outlook calendar as well as send out the meeting invitations to all agents simultaneously.

A bit of Vegas in DC.

"Oh, Lady Luck is my girl today! The coveted 'eleven is heaven,'" Morgan announced. "What time did you get?"

"One twenty-six," Elle answered with a groan.

"Ouch," Morgan said sympathetically. "The Grumpy Lunch one. You're gonna have to walk in there armed with a fresh pot of coffee."

Hotch looked at his. "Four oh six." He wondered if Reid tweaked the program so that Hotch would have a later meeting time.

Elle and Morgan said nothing, and Hotch was unsure if that was a good thing or not.

He put it out his mind. He reached for another folder, one that Reid must have placed on his desk last night. Cold case. Chicago, Illinois. Two boys, barely teenagers, all African American, strangled. The first fifteen years ago. The second four years ago. Both John Does. Dumped in a section of Chicago rife with gangbangers. Little forensic evidence. No one looking for them.

The kind of case that no one paid attention to.

Well, _he_ was going to pay attention.

Hotch began reading.

########

Thankfully, the Chicago case kept Hotch occupied for most of the day. He could ignore Gideon holding court and tune out the clicks of Reid's door open and closing as other agents went in for their meeting with the chief. He _couldn't_ ignore that, as the day got later, the agents leaving Reid's office seemed more and more distraught.

"Fucking hell, you need asbestos in there," Anderson grumbled after his. He even rubbed his ass for effect. "Coffee's not gonna cut it," he warned Elle. "Man, I don't know what's gonna."

Which mean Reid was in a foul mood. Their chief, as 'eccentric' as people liked to label him, was also as emotionally even-keeled as any person Hotch had ever met. So when Reid ceased being friendly to his own agents …

Good God. No wonder the 'no blindside' rule was in effect. The people after Anderson lined up outside of Reid's office like they were facing their own execution, that Reid's office was the death chamber. When Elle came out, she fidgeted at her desk for a good three minutes before heading towards the ladies' room.

There was only one thing for Hotch to do: his job. He would provide the most accurate and complete profile he could for these two unknown boys. For the boys that no one was looking for, except for one desperate Chicago detective and an ex-lawyer from Virginia.

When Hotch's time rolled around, he picked up the Chicago file. He was tempted to go into the kitchen and snag a carafe of coffee, paper cups and stirrers so he could carry out his plan from this morning, Operation: Make Spencer Smile.

But it was late in the afternoon, Hotch was sure that there was at least one meeting scheduled after his own, and everyone always paid attention to an agent when he or she entered and exited the office. They weren't supposed to profile each other, but they did.

Reid kept the blinds drawn during those meetings, so no one could observe the conversation. As Hotch went up the ramp to Reid's office, Wendy came out of it looking like she'd just endured the worst of the worst humanity had to offer. Given what the BAU dealt with … yeah… She looked at him, mouthed "Good luck" and went back to her desk.

Hotch took a deep breath before knocking, waiting for Reid's absent "Come in," entering and closing the door. He walked up to Reid's desk and was surprised that the chief didn't even look up from what he was working on.

Reid could easily multi-task; Hotch had seen it enough times when they were out in the field. Yet it was the first time during this type of meeting that the chief did not give his undivided attention.

_So that's what Wendy meant by 'Good luck,'_ Hotch thought. He looked at the chair positioned in front of Reid's desk, but there were no drag marks around the legs. Wendy hadn't sat to give her report. It didn't look like anyone else had either.

"Stop profiling the chair," Reid snarled.

"Yes, sir." Hotch's gaze snapped back to the chief, whose desk was littered with several very thick folders. Reid was writing, his fingers gripping the pen tightly in anger. Or frustration. More than likely, both. Hotch knew it wasn't because of him; he wasn't that self-centered. He also knew he was two seconds from the next order—_Stop profiling __**me**_—so Hotch began, "I have the case file for the two teenager boys strangled in Chicago. They are still unknowns. First killing was fifteen years ago. The second, four. Detective …"

"_You_ have that file?" Reid demanded, voice cold and fury radiating from him.

Stunned by the man's tone, he stuttered, "It was on my desk this morning, sir."

The chief's grip on his pen turned his fingers white. Although Reid's head was down, Hotch knew the man's jaw was working. He'd only seen Reid thoroughly pissed off once—verbally taking the head off of a principal who dismissed bullying as a reason for a kid turning homicidal—and Hotch had absolutely no desire to see it again.

Hotch counted to five and continued, "Detective Gor…"

"Have you completed the profile?" Reid cut him off, still not looking up, but _goddamn_ he was pressing down hard enough that Aaron swore he could hear the ball of the pen scratching against the paper.

"A preliminary one, sir."

Reid held out the hand that he wasn't writing with, gesturing for the file but not looking up. Aaron handed it over and wondered if Reid could hear the embarrassing gulping sound he made. Because there was Angry Spencer Reid, Pissed off Spencer Reid, Infuriated Spencer Reid and … now this … this Overloaded Nuclear Reactor Ready to Explode Spencer Reid.

The chief slammed the file down on the pile to his right.

_Jesus Christ._ It took every ounce of willpower _not_ to flee from the man's office.

Aaron felt like an impala who stumbled upon a rangy, starving cheetah and his escape routes were completely cut off.

So he had no idea why the hell he was reaching inside his coat pocket and pulling out the battered baggie.

Maybe he had a death wish.

Maybe? Who the hell was he kidding? He _had_ a death wish.

Aaron held out the bag. "I thought maybe for the next round that we could try coffee?"

And _Oh God_ his voice didn't just break on that last word like some teenager.

Reid went still.

Aaron willed himself still and hoped his breathing didn't sound as high pitched as it did to his own ears.

Reid looked up.

Aaron saw the clenched jaw and the furious sneer. He watched as Reid refocused on the tattered baggie. For several moments, there was absolute silence. Then, Reid asked icily, "Four fourteen in the afternoon, and you want to do an experiment with coffee?"

"We don't have an iced tea maker in the kitchen?" and Aaron _definitely_ squeaked out those words. He wondered where the hell his bad ass, former-prosecutor, SWAT leader persona went to.

Oh yeah. He walked into the den occupied by a rangy, starving cheetah that he didn't know existed until just now.

His bad ass, former-prosecutor, SWAT leader persona had a sense of self-preservation.

Reid glared. His nostrils flared. Aaron swallowed hard. Then slowly, the anger seemed to drain away from the chief. His features softened, becoming unreadable. The grip on his pen loosened. His shoulders when from hunched over and tight to open and relaxed. He leaned back, the leather of his chair creaking softly. He tilted his head sideways and folded his hands over his stomach.

Aaron still held out the bag, but at least he wasn't shaking. He wet his lips. He jutted his chin towards the credenza where Reid had a Nespresso machine that he never used. There were coffee cups neatly stacked to the sides. "Five cups?"

Reid closed his eyes briefly. When opened them, he said quietly, "Maybe some other time."

"Of course, sir." Aaron let out a breath and carefully put the baggie back inside his jacket.

Reid leaned forward, resting his forearms on his desk. He looked like he was in his sixties instead of his forties. He breathed loudly, as if taking cleansing breaths. Finally, he met Aaron's gaze with a wholly apologetic one of his own. "If I had known Gideon was returning today, I would have told you."

"I … I know that, sir."

"I apologize for …"

"You said you didn't know," Aaron dared to interrupt. "You can't apologize … you _shouldn't_ apologize for something you have no control over. You told me that."

Reid nodded. "I suppose I did."

"Gideon and I spoke this morning," Aaron continued, wondering if the other agent mentioned it. "Clean slate."

"Clean slate," Reid repeated neutrally, but there was a protective glint in his eyes that translated as, _I won't allow what happened to happen again_.

"Yes, sir." And Aaron was never so desperate to hear the correction of 'Spen-sir' as he was now.

It didn't come.

Aaron waited, because he knew he still had at least five minutes before Reid would allow him to go back out into the bullpen.

There was no such thing as 'being let out class early' when it came to a meeting with SAC SSA Unit Chief Spencer Reid.

"I hear you're going down to Jamaica with Morgan and Elle," Reid offered conversationally.

It was a lifeline. Aaron latched on to it and held tight. "Yes. For our AL. I've never been so I thought why not?"

Reid didn't answer.

For whatever reason, Aaron's mind decided to vomit. "Why don't you join us? No beaches. I mean, you can do the beaches if you want but that's, ah, not for me really. I hate just … lying there. And beach volleyball? I always get the drunk sorority girl on my team so all I think about is liability. So … I golf. I mean, I _want_ to golf while I'm down there. Improve my stroke. My stroke is shittastic." And like when one was puking his brains out, Aaron couldn't seem to stop. "I mean, I've set up some tee times but they don't allow singles so I'll be paired up with someone but if you were to go and join me on the golf course, then we could have the same tee times and be a twosome that can hook up with another single for a threesome or maybe another twosome so we'll be a foursome or just stick to being a twosome…"

Aaron paused to take a deep breath and then found himself staring at the stunned expression of his chief.

_Good Christ._

But that shocked expression turned into Reid's full impish grin. "Are you inviting me to an orgy?"

"Orgy?" Aaron repeated, horrified. Not only because of the misunderstanding but because a) Aaron said the word aloud in a personal conversation and b) he said it to his boss. He knew his face was on fire from blushing. He stammered, "No. No! Twosome is a golf term for two players … threesome…"

Reid held his hand up.

Aaron clamped his mouth shut.

Reid said, "I get it." His lips curved into that smile that Aaron supposed he adored. Reid admitted, "I don't play golf."

"You could caddy."

"Caddy?" Reid arched an eyebrow.

"Well … yes… I mean … Not as in carry my golf clubs! No! PGA regs require the golfer to carry his own clubs, and if I'm going to play I might as well follow the pro rules and I always walk the course. That's half the point. I would never … no … never ask you to carry my clubs. Caddies … they also profile the course, how the fairway and greens are cut. Wind direction and speed. Like a survey of the conditions. Then we talk about the shot and what would be the best club and approach to use based on those factors. I mean, behind every Tiger Woods is a Steve Williams who helps him to win. You've got PhDs in mathematics and physics! If you were my caddy …"

"You could show Tiger a thing or two about golfing?"

"No! Good Lord, never on that level! My handicap is terrifying but with your understanding of physics and mathematics … how the putts roll on the greens is all about physics … you could … help make me, ah, better?" Aaron sputtered. He winced and tried his best not to bounce on his feet. God only knows where all _this_ behavior was coming from, because Aaron couldn't remember the last time he just rambled like a fucking idiot.

First the Sugar Shtick. Now, he spewed on about golf. Christ.

Apparently, this was what happened when an impala tried to talk the rangy, starving cheetah out of devouring him.

Reid's expression was one of amusement. He bit his lips and it looked like he was trying not to laugh. He swallowed a few times before saying, "I'm honored that you think my knowledge of physics and calculus could help improve your game." He cleared his throat a little and it was clear he was fighting back a huge smile. "But I will have to take a pass on Jamaica. I'll be in Vegas for my AL."

"Of course," Aaron said quickly. "It was just …"

"You know," Reid interrupted, and now he was grinning, "of all the people who have tried to get me involved in sports, you are the first to approach it from a scientific perspective."

"I'm probably the only person who made a complete ass out of himself for asking."

"Actually, I would say you're trying to charm the pants off me."

"_Sir_?"

Reid held up his hands. "I'll stop now." He then laughed, the good kind that wasn't nervous or forced. He stood and extended his hand. Aaron automatically reached forward and they shook. Reid's turned serious. "I hope the clean slate is successful."

"So do I."

"My door is always open."

"I know." Aaron took a deep breath before saying, "Mine is too."

That earned a wide, warm smile. Reid's thumb caressed the side of Aaron's hand before he let go. There was a knock at the door. Aaron took a step back. "Your next meeting?"

"JJ's my last for the day. Send her in." Reid said as he sat back down. "Have a good evening, Aaron."

"You do the same, sir."

"_Spen_-sir," came the soft correction.

Aaron knew he blushed as he repeated, "Spencer."

He turned and took a few steps towards the door, schooling his features back to neutral (_As if that could fool JJ_). He breathed a few times, setting his shoulders. When he opened the door to Spencer's office, JJ stood there with a fresh pot of coffee and the tin of cookies that usually lived in Garcia's lair.

JJ eyed him briefly but he opened the door and stepped aside to allow her to enter. He left, closing the door behind him and calmly walking back to his desk. First Elle then Morgan made the silent offers of 'If you want to talk we can step away' but Aaron declined.

He had brought Reid back from the edge.

He would allow JJ to take the credit for Reid's improved mood—coffee and cookies usually did that—but he wasn't about to share.

He savored the victory

He made Reid smile.

Even if he made a complete ass of himself in the process.

He made Reid smile.

**##### End of Book 1 #####**

_A/N: Thanks to everyone who has commented on this story so far. I am stunned by the response and enthusiasm for this story. _

_What started out as a whim on my part in response to a prompt from a kink meme—could I actually write a viable AU where Reid was the chief and Hotch had a crush on him?—evolved into this. I was very hesitant to publish it; would people buy into a 'verse where Hotch wasn't as "Hotch" and Reid wasn't exactly "Reid"? _

_I wasn't even going to tell anyone I wrote this yet something made me confess to the lovely, wonderful CMAli, complete with the 'it will probably never see the light of day.' Her simple "Why not?" made me rethink things._

_Taking episodes and recasting them in the "Reid's the Chief" light has been challenging and fun. I treasure the questions and critiques that I've received because they made me stop and think. Those comments made me review what I'd written and realize that, well, I needed to make some changes._

_I concluded this installment with the words "End of Book 1" because I felt that this was a good stopping point for the initial arc. I'm currently working on Book 2, which will feature an AU take on "The Fisher King" as well as other S2 episodes. I realize that the relationship between Hotch and Reid hasn't progressed as quickly as some readers would like, but I felt I had to establish the foundation of their professional and personal relationships first. _

_For those wanting Reid's take on the whole Hot Shot/Hotch relationship, that will be tackled in Book 2 as well. He faces the same conflicts as our canon Hotch does; he's the chief, he's concerned about fraternization issues and how it will affect the Team he's built, and he may be just as bad at taking what is offered as Hotch is._

_Book 1 was written over four months and I just began working on Book 2, so it may be a few months before this is updated. _

_As always, crits, questions and feedback are always welcome._


	12. Interlude: The Chopstick Conundrum

_**Keep the Suit, Lose the Nickname,** a Criminal Minds AU_

**_Interlude_**

_Thanks to everyone who has been following this story and who have asked for updates. Admittedly, I've had a crisis of confidence regarding this story, plus a whole bunch of Real Life kicking in. Never a good combo._

_I hope to have part 1 of Book Two posted by mid-April 2012. _

_FYI - I have eaten at the restaurant mentioned in this story. I was the only one who ate with a fork because I'm "Chopstick Impaired" like whoa!_

* * *

><p><em><strong>The Chopstick Conundrum<strong>_

* * *

><p>Reid didn't know how to use chopsticks. While none of the team outright teased the chief about it, it was something that wholly surprised Hotch. Reid was ambidextrous, his lean fingers nimble as he did magic and card tricks to pass the time. Hotch supposed he could watch the man shuffle for <em>hours<em> because, well, it was mesmerizing.

"It's like foraging for food using Number Two Pencils," Reid once complained while dining with the team. It earned a laugh from the group, but Hotch wondered what the real reason was behind it.

It wasn't as if he was ever going to ask, but then, well, the opportunity literally presented itself.

Reid took him along for a presentation to the San Francisco PD and they ended up a sushi bar in the Yerba Buena Gardens complex. Reid requested a fork while Hotch snapped the chopsticks apart and rubbed the ends together.

Maybe it was because it was just the two of them.

Maybe it was because he and Reid really did have a good rapport.

Maybe it was an excuse to touch his boss.

Surely the latter was the reason why Hotch blurted out, "I think you're over-thinking it."

Reid frowned and then began talking about their presentation.

"No," Hotch interrupted softly and then wiggled his chopsticks. "These."

Reid hitched an eyebrow at him. "Really."

"Really."

"When we were in Denver last month, you said chopsticks reminded you of fulcrums. I think you may be…" God, was he really saying this? "I think you're over-thinking it."

"The rubber band trick doesn't work," Reid told him, but there was no animosity or frustration in his voice. There was curiosity in his tone. There was also an invitation for Hotch to continue.

"Here," Hotch said as he touched Reid's wrist.

He pulled and Reid went along willingly. Then, he carefully maneuvered the sticks to their proper position, his hand and fingers covering Reid's, and went through the motions of picking up a piece of sushi.

"You do sleight-of-hand all the time." Hotch couldn't believe how low his voice was, barely above a whisper. He couldn't believe the thrill he got from touching his boss. And, Jesus Christ, they were two federal agents in a goddamn public restaurant. Yet he continued, "It's the same as doing a card trick."

He felt Reid move his hand beneath this. He held his breath, because there were things he wanted to do right now … things which were wholly inappropriate but …

"A card trick?" Reid queried, amused. He moved his hand forward which caused Hotch's own hand to slide off of his. Reid snagged a piece of sushi and carefully pulled it back. The sushi was quickly losing its integrity.

"You're squeezing it too tightly."

"You're an expert."

"I had to be, living in Seattle. Ichi-rolls at the ballpark and all."

Reid shook his head. "Ichi-rolls? I don't think I want to know," he said before stuffing the entire piece in his mouth. He chewed for a few seconds. "You remembered the fulcrum conversation."

Embarrassed, Hotch grabbed another pair of chopsticks and prepped them. "Kind of hard not to."

"You remember a lot of things I say."

He paused, knowing he was caught. He stared at the plate. "There's always a reason why you say something."

When he dared to look up, he found Reid smiling serenely at him. "Thanks for lessons."

"You're welcome."

However, the next time the group went out for dinner and had Chinese (which was terrifyingly frequent if Hotch bothered to tally it up), Reid used a fork. Hotch hid his disappointment but then rationalized that Reid didn't want to be embarrassed of his sub-par skills.

Then … during the next case, the Team was split up among the three towns, so it was just Hotch and Reid and two cartons full of Chinese. Without a bit of hesitation, Reid wielded chopsticks with an understated flourish as he continued talking about the case between bites.

_He'll only use them in front of you_, Aaron thought to himself. _Your shared secret_. Which was juvenile to think that way because, _He probably matches tequila shots with Elle and beats the pants off of Morgan playing beer pong._ Then the darker side of him chided, _He doesn't want to explain that some BAU rookie taught him._

Still, Reid used chopsticks. But he only did it when he was alone with Hotch.

And Hotch? Well, he coveted it.

/***/


	13. Book 2 Prelude: Tee Me Up

**_Tee Me Up  
><em>**

**Author:** Kuria Dalmatia  
>'<strong>Verse:<strong> Reid's The Chief!  
><strong>CharactersPairing:** Hotch/Reid, Season 1's BAU  
><strong>RatingsWarnings:** FRT/PG-13 (profanity, adult content)  
><strong>Summery:<strong> Reid practices golf in the privacy of his office, only to be interrupted by the man he hopes to impress.  
><strong>ARCHIVING:<strong> my DW, AO3, LJ and FFNet account... anyone else? Please ask first.

May-July 2012

**COMMENTS:** To lj user=ice_ziggee for massive cheerleading, being an awesome and thoughtful beta, and the insights that gave me the courage to continue. References to the golf conversation in "Return of the Deposed"

Any mistakes are mine, all mine.

* * *

><p>Hitting a white golf ball into the paper cup on its side shouldn't have been as difficult as it was.<p>

Seriously.

Line up the shot.

Position the club.

Hit the ball with the head of the club.

Follow through with the swing.

Watch as the ball rolled towards the cup and then, as if in an act of defiance, it curved to the side and missed the target completely.

Spencer hadn't been _this_ lousy with making a shot since his first year at the Bureau.

He growled as he stalked over, picked up the ball, and went back to his starting point. Of the forty-three times he putted this afternoon, the ball only rolled in to the cup twice, which translated to a four point six five percent success rate.

In layman's terms, Spencer sucked. Given his track record with other sports, he wondered why he was so surprised.

Maybe because he actually bought into Aaron's babbled explanation about how his degrees in math and physics would come in handy on the golf course. Spencer went so far as to measure the floor of his BAU office with the carpenter's level he kept in his desk to determine if the carpeting was uneven.

It was perfectly flat. The thought of rationalizing that the curvature of the Earth and the Earth's rotation played a part in his ineptitude was simply pathetic.

No. It was simply his own shortcomings. Doctorates Six, Sports Zero.

And what was supposed to be a break from reviewing cases going to trial ended up being more frustrating than actually doing the work.

Spencer sighed, put the ball on the ground again, and mentally called up the pages from _Golf for Dummies_ on how to line up a putt. It was late-afternoon on a Saturday and the BAU was deserted except for him; otherwise, he wouldn't have taken a break to try to hit a golf ball into a paper cup in his office.

Line up. Practice swing. Swing. Follow-through.

Spencer glared at the white ball that had rolled to the left _again_. Two for forty-four. Four point five four five percent success rate. Of the forty-two failed attempts, the ball curved left seventy-one point four two percent. It didn't matter how he adjusted his stance or angled the club. The damn thing kept curving left. He glared at the ball before using the club to roll it back into position.

"Er, sir?"

The new voice startled Spencer, causing him to step back. He almost hid the golf club behind his right leg because he was embarrassed about being caught playing in his office. Then, he chastised himself.

If Gideon could play chess during business hours and no one gave him grief about it, Spencer Reid could certainly practice putting in the privacy of his office during _non_-work hours.

And it wasn't as if his visitor—Aaron Hotchner—was going to run off and tell people he caught the unit chief playing golf.

Spencer took in Aaron's attire: burgundy, short-sleeved polo shirt and nicely fitted blue jeans. Aaron dressed left today, Spencer couldn't help but notice. The look definitely made Spencer's Top Five of Aaron Hotchner's ensembles.

But nothing could really beat Aaron's debauched, post-orgasmic look at the apartment those weeks ago.

"Aaron," he greeted and then leaned on the club as if it were a cane. Spencer forced himself not to be embarrassed, even though the last person he wanted to catch him attempting to play golf had done so.

Spencer had a plan on how to use golf as an excuse to spend off-duty hours with the man. It was no secret that he advised JJ on Fantasy Football, shot hoops with Morgan, went to Doctor Who conventions with Garcia (always dressed as the Third Doctor), and attended Orioles games with Elle. He tried his best to make a personal connection with every member of his team as well as every person under his command.

Golf was (finally) the legitimate "in" with the newest member of the BAU, although it had taken almost a year to pry that information out of the man. Aaron was private as the rest of them—especially about what he did in his off-hours—although he did a little bragging about his younger brother attending Georgetown on a full-ride scholarship and how Sean Hotchner scored a 169 on the LSAT. Aaron had helped his brother with law school applications as well. Still, golf was the first extra-curricular activity amongst his team that was uniquely Aaron's.

It was also the first time anyone had every reasoned that Spencer's advanced degrees in mathematics and physics would help him play better.

Spencer's plan had been to practice enough so that he wouldn't be an embarrassment when he finally got on the course with Aaron. While he was taking a pass on Jamaica, Spencer figured the second week that they had off and Aaron was back in the country could possibly be spent together on the driving range or golf course. Hopefully, Aaron would make another overture and they would go a bit further than they had on Aaron's couch. He was serious when he stated that Aaron wasn't the only one with fantasies.

However, Aaron was the Master of Mixed Signals. One moment, it seemed that Aaron wanted to pursue a more intimate relationship with Spencer. The next? It was more of a mentor-student vibe. After that? A strict and painfully formal professional relationship. Then, it was back to the flirty, witty banter. Because of those signals, Spencer had held off his pursuit.

He felt that Aaron should initiate the continuation, because otherwise, Spencer felt that the man might feel coerced into a physical relationship. Spencer also was a good judge of character and usually didn't allow his infatuation to interfere with his personal assessment of someone. Aaron was definitely not the type of person who would use this relationship as a way to gain a foothold within the power structure of the FBI (which made him all the more appealing). All Aaron had to do was report Spencer's behavior to Strauss and Strauss would reward him for it. Spencer had been around the Bureau long enough to see that scenario play out more than once.

When Spencer brought Aaron on board, he believed that the person on his team who would have the most issues would have been Morgan. He thought Morgan would feel threatened by the Hot Shot who shot up the ranks in Seattle's field office. He thought Morgan would butt heads with the newest Must-Protect-The-Herd Alpha Male agent.

Instead, the two seemed to hit it off almost immediately. There was a healthy rivalry between them built on mutual respect. They gave each other hell sometimes, but it was never malicious. Aaron took his place at the bottom of the pecking order. He never once put himself above the Team in order to prove his worth. Never once threw Morgan (or Elle or anyone) under the bus in order to further his career.

Gideon, on the other hand …. One of Spencer's biggest faults was allowing the man to come back when he did, to clear him for duty and put him back out in the grind. Strauss had called for the man's resignation during that vindictive, post-bombing IA inquiry. Spencer chose loyalty over logic, championing for Gideon's absolution of wrongdoing and for his reinstatement in the Bureau.

At first, Spencer had dismissed Gideon's hostility towards Hotch as PTSD. Sure, Gideon rode the young agent hard, but Gideon did that to everyone until they proved themselves to him. After that, Gideon doled out tempered praise when the agent did a good job. But Hotch didn't respond like the others. Hotch didn't seek Gideon's advice on how to be a better agent, to be a better profiler. Hotch was the first agent who didn't pester Gideon with, "So why did the Footpath Killer stutter?"

Spencer had talked to Gideon several times before he finally addressed the issue with Hotch directly. Gideon seemed surprised that his behavior was being interpreted that way, that he had a vendetta against Hotch, and Spencer had somewhat accepted the response. When Hotch had explained his take on the situation, Spencer's heart sunk.

Hotch believed he deserved the rough treatment and was unshakable in that belief.

It was frustrating, but Spencer allowed it to continue because he trusted Hotch's judgement. But when the verbal attack came in Tennessee … trying to get the details of exactly _what_ Gideon had said to Hotch had been nearly impossible. It was only after Spencer creatively threatened Morgan, Elle and JJ that they told him; in exchange for the information, he swore that the details would never make it into a report of any type.

Suspending Gideon had been Spencer's only recourse, even if it was just eight months after his mandatory leave from the Bale Bombings. Spencer spent the next two weeks examining every single case and consult that Gideon worked on since coming back from Boston, worried that he had missed things because of his blind spot for Gideon. The flaws he found weren't earth-shattering, but there were enough to cause concern.

During the two weeks he could have spent exploring the possibility of a relationship with Aaron, Spencer shored up those files. The morning of Gideon's return, Spencer spent dealing with Strauss and her desire to oust Gideon outright, to force the elder statesman of the BAU to retire in disgrace. Spencer couldn't in good conscience allow Gideon's contributions to be so summarily dismissed, to have any disgrace associated with them. So he pulled nearly every trick he had learned over the years in order to get a momentary reprieve until he could convince Gideon to retire on his own.

Spencer won. It was at a great cost, but he won. As a magician, letting the audience in on his tricks was inexcusable but he had broken that barrier for Gideon.

It turned out that he hadn't needed to at all.

Because when he walked into the BAU that same morning and saw the lights on in Gideon's office and the blinds opened, he realized Strauss bamboozled him.

And when he asked Gideon, Gideon explained how he talked to Strauss directly, admitting that he "might have been" harsh on a few agents, but he wanted to continue to do his job. He was unashamed to admit he had PTSD and talked about the counseling sessions with the Bureau psychiatrist. Then, Gideon turned that earnest smile upon Spencer and praised Hotch for being one of the best they had in their ranks in a long time.

Being manipulated like that had infuriated Spencer. Finding out that Gideon also had redistributed consults that morning according to _Gideon's_ assessment had been galling. How else had Aaron ended up with the cold case Chicago file about the two murdered teenagers? Spencer took it out on his agents, but Aaron had been the only one who had the guts to call him on it. Aaron. Proud and brave Aaron stood in his office, holding out that bag of sweeteners and saying, _I thought maybe for the next round that we could try coffee._

Doing his best not to shake. Doing his best to look strong and fearless but failing spectacularly.

Expecting to have the unholy hell beaten out of him but he was okay with that as long as Spencer beat the unholy hell out of _him_ so that the others would be spared.

Babbling about golf. Trying desperately to do _something_, anything, so that whoever had a meeting afterward was spared Spencer's anger.

That selflessness and bravery made Spencer's heart ache (and his dick harden). He knew right then he was hopelessly smitten with Aaron Hotchner.

Hence, Spencer's attempt at golf. He hoped that if _he_ made the effort for them to spend some private time together, Aaron would finally initiate something, even if it was as simple as an arm around his shoulder.

Now? Well, it was quite clear from the frown on Aaron's face that Spencer playing golf in public was out of the question. Spencer couldn't even make a putt in his office!

Aaron took a step forward, hands at his sides and brow still wrinkled in concentration. His gaze went from the club to the paper cup to the ball that was a foot behind and to the left of the cup.

Why, oh why, hadn't Spencer closed the blinds to his office and shut the door?

He could firmly take control of the conversation by asking Aaron what the man was doing here on his day off. Yet he refrained as he watched Aaron take a few steps closer.

Aaron then stated, "I didn't know you played," but his gaze kept bouncing between the club and the cup.

"I don't," Spencer laughed as he shook his head. "Well, not until about four days ago. While putting is an excellent example of Newton's First Law of Motion, I'm compelled to say that I haven't taken the curvature of the Earth into consideration."

It was a joke—a bad one—and Aaron usually caught on to them faster than the others. He was the one who usually held back a snicker. Today? Well, Aaron wetted his lower lip as he edged even closer. He glanced at the club in Spencer's hand before meeting Spencer's gaze, no humor in his expression at all.

"I don't think it's the curvature," Aaron told him, all serious and intense. "I think it's your club."

"When all else fails, blame the equipment?" he quipped as he offered it up for inspection. Spencer had heard the excuse enough in his lifetime not to be annoyed by the attempt to make him feel better.

"Seriously," Aaron insisted as he reached for the club and Spencer handed it to him. Aaron accepted it and held it so he could scrutinize the putter head and the handle. He then gripped the putter and settled into what Spencer guessed to be his golf stance, although he was hunched over more than what was recommended.

Aaron swung the club a few times before lining up and taking a shot. The ball rolled smoothly into the cup. Spencer's first cruel thought was, _Show off_. _Let's see __**you**__ calculate a probability distribution without a calculator or paper and pencil._ Yet as quick as Spencer's annoyance flared, it died down. Aaron wasn't showing off. Spencer could tell by the way the other man shook his head slightly.

"The club is too short and it's for a lefty," Aaron announced as he looked up. He handed the club back to Spencer. "Please don't tell me a pro shop sold these to you, because if they did, they don't have any business being _in_ business."

"A friend let me borrow an old set," Spencer explained as he gestured to the golf bag and set of clubs that were somewhat hidden by the old fashioned coatrack he kept in the corner, behind the door. He wasn't going to clarify that said friend was also his long-time sponsor and held the second highest position in the FBI. Spencer hoped that Aaron wouldn't walk over to the clubs and inspect those as well, because he was certain John's name was on the bag somewhere.

Spencer paused as he saw the expression on Aaron's face. Was the younger man upset that Spencer had gone ahead and tried golfing on his own without asking him for tutelage? While he had planned on asking Aaron once they returned from their respective vacation spots, Spencer knew it was better to explain why he was putting in his office.

"I thought about what you said about my advanced degrees being an asset on the golf course. I would like to take you up on your offer to, ah, 'hit the links'— I believe that's what the saying is—but having never golfed before ..." Spencer shrugged and offered Aaron a half-grin. "I do what I always do. Research."

It took a moment before Aaron returned his smile with a more bashful one. Spencer swore he could see the blush highlighting the man's cheeks as Aaron suddenly scratched the back of his neck. His statement came out as a question, "You want to go golfing?"

"Like I said, it's something I haven't done before. You were very persuasive a few weeks ago," Spencer said. "However, I believe if I was your caddy, then we wouldn't qualify as a twosome. Hence, my attempts at putting."

That comment caused Aaron's face to redden and him to look sideways. "Ah, sir …"

"_Spen_-sir," he corrected as his smile grew. It was goofy to adore such a simple affection, but Spencer did. Aaron could be so painfully proper sometimes. "It's three-forty something on a Saturday afternoon. I've turned my office into a putting green. There's no need to be so formal."

As always, Aaron dutifully repeated, "Spen-sir," but then closed his mouth, as if thinking better of what he was about to say. After a few moments, he set his shoulders as if he had made a decision. "I, um. I have a set of clubs you can try. I mean, we're about the same height. They're righties, and the newer one I have are lefties because I'm a lefty and I thought if I used lefty ones it would help … that is, if you don't mind using my old clubs but they're the right size for your height and the grips are still good—I had them replaced about a year before I switched over to the new ones—and really, they are a good set of clubs. I've golfed with them for years. I mean, they're not _ancient_ or anything and the only reason I don't still use them is that I've been gradually replacing them with lefties. Wait, I already said that … but what I meant was …"

"I'd be honored to try your clubs," Spencer interrupted gently, fighting back a wide grin and wondering if Aaron knew just how attractive he was when he over-explained himself. And _yes!_ This was the playful reaction Spencer was hoping for. "Thank you."

Yet Aaron winced. "Jesus, I sound like an idiot."

"I think you sound charming," he replied and bounced a little on his heels. The compliment caused Aaron meet his gaze again. Spencer couldn't help but grin now. He could see the indecision in the man's eyes and knew what he was thinking about, what Aaron was working up the courage to ask.

"Well, as long as I'm making a complete and _charming_ ass out of myself," Aaron began, but there was humor in his voice instead of sarcasm. There was also a bit of what Spencer dubbed 'Hot Shot Confidence,' the self-assured side of Aaron that made him so successful. "I have a practice putter set back at my apartment. It has an automatic return for when you make the shot. And …" he paused again and made a little gesture with his hand, "I … I can help with your swing … if you want. I mean. Not that it's bad or anything …"

It took everything to keep the giddiness out of his voice as Spencer said, "That would be grand."

Finally, the younger man smiled again. _Set dimples to stun_, Spencer thought to himself as he always did. He also knew that Aaron was well aware of just what he could get away with when he smiled like that. Aaron asked, "Tonight?"

And before Aaron could say something about being presumptuous, Spencer immediately answered, "I'll pick up some Ethiopian takeout. It may not be traditional golf food—honestly, I don't know what would be—but you mentioned you wanted to try it."

That earned the full blown Aaron Hotchner grin. "Sounds great."

"Time?"

Aaron glanced at his watch. "It's nearly four. You probably have stuff to finish up here so …?"

"Six o'clock. Your place. Does that give you enough to do what you came in for?"

The man's grin faltered and he glanced away. "Yeah. Sure."

"You couldn't get a case out of your head?" Spencer asked gently.

"Yeah. Something like that."

The chief knew he could press on, but decided to hold off. It was something they could perhaps discuss over dinner. Instead, he offered, "You're not the only one who does that. Why else am I here today? I'll let you in on a little secret. Morgan prefers Monday evenings when football isn't in season while Green and Anderson have been known to come here instead of Sunday mass."

Aaron nodded as his smile returned. "And Elle?"

"I believe she takes files home with her, but don't hold me to that," Spencer replied. "So. Six o'clock at your place. See you then?"

The younger man beamed, his confidence back. "See you then."


	14. Book 2, Chapter 1: Prank Me Not

**Keep the Suit, Lose the Nickname: **A Criminal Minds AU

_**Book 2 **__**All the King's Men**_

**Chapter 1: **Prank Me Not

**Author:** Kuria Dalmatia

'**Verse:** Reid's The Chief!

**Characters/Pairing:** Hotch/Reid, Season 1's BAU

**Ratings/Warnings:** FRT/PG-13 (profanity, adult content)

**Chapter Summary:** The Team's AL is interrupted by an UnSub who puts them on a quest to save a girl. When the team doesn't adhere to the UnSub's rules, the UnSub extracts a brutal price.

**ARCHIVING:** my DW, AO3, LJ and FFNet account... anyone else? Please ask first.

August 2011, September 2011, February-March 2012, May 2012, June 2012

**COMMENTS:** Dedicated to the lovely Daylyn for the incredible discussion about Hotch's law experience, LSAT and bar exams. Thanks to her, my understanding has vastly improved. To Ice_ziggee for massive cheerleading, a few spins as a beta, and the insights that gave me the courage to continue. To Kathryn Sparrow, who helped me refocus the story on what it truly is—Hotch/Reid—and for encouraging me undelete several scenes.

TIMELINE: An AU look at "The Fisher King." References events in "Tee Me Up."

Any mistakes are mine, all mine.

* * *

><p>"<em>No one needs a vacation more than the person who just had one."<em>

* * *

><p>The putting practice and Ethiopian dinner at Aaron's apartment never happened. Reid didn't come over to Aaron's place to try out Aaron's right-handed golf clubs. Aaron didn't coach Reid on adjusting his grip on the club or his stance. The fantasies that Aaron conjured up on his way home from Quantico most certainly didn't happen.<p>

At four-thirty that afternoon, the BAU was called to Tempe, Arizona to stop a spree killer who was targeting those in fraternities and sororities, specifically those in the National Association of Latino Fraternal Organizations. It was a brutal six days in which Elle took the lead with the sororities and Aaron with the frats because they were the only two with Greek system ties. Admittedly, Aaron was surprised that Elle belonged to a sorority and JJ didn't; JJ was much more the typical sorority type. Hell, the fact that Morgan, Reid and Gideon weren't members of some type of fraternal organization—even if it was purely academic, not social—was somewhat shocking to Aaron.

He put all those aside and worked the case as best he could. Some of the frat brothers dissed his Phi Alpha Delta ties because it was a law fraternity and his alma mater, Georgetown, was a non-Greek school. Still, Aaron was able to make a connection with the leadership at both frats and got them to convince their members to let the FBI handle the case.

It was an ugly resolution, but a resolution nonetheless. It was one that made the entire team look forward to their annual leave with even more anticipation. Time back at the office was spent churning through paperwork so that when Friday rolled around, they could all leave by five.

So it was very disappointing for Aaron, because he finally had a legitimate excuse (and the nerve) to invite Reid over, but Fate seemed to conspire against him. The only thing that made it more palatable was Reid's promise that when they got back from their respective vacation spots, they would practice putting at Aaron's apartment and Reid would bring dinner.

But first, there was Jamaica.

"It's going to be sick," Morgan promised as he adjusted his fedora and high-fived Aaron. "Really, really sick. I promise!"

And for the first day, it was. On the second day, however, Aaron received a phone call at five a.m.

Aaron had endured his fair share of practical jokes when he first joined the BAU. He considered it a right-of-passage and told himself that he should be flattered that the other team members took the time to yank his chain. None of the jokes were particularly harsh and after the first six months, the Fearsome Foursome—Morgan, Elle, JJ and Garcia—gave it a rest.

Or maybe not.

The stupid phone call warned him 'not to waste time on the first victims,' and was about as clichéd as one could get.

"Ha, ha," he said into the dead receiver before rolling over at going back to sleep.

So, he was immediately skeptical when Morgan pounded on the door of his hotel room later that morning. "Hotch! Open up!"

He barely got the door open before Morgan charged in and announced, "Elle's been arrested for murder."

"What? Did she off one of those unrepentant 'bad men' you called about earlier?" he scoffed, still annoyed at the five a.m. wake up call. "A raspy voice on the other line? Seriously? I'm not some rookie that you can entice into a wild goose chase, Morgan."

"What the hell are you talking about, man?" Morgan demanded as he glared. "Elle's been arrested. I'm goddamn _serious_."

He almost challenged Morgan again. Almost. But something about the way the man was pacing and the way he was dressed—dark slacks, long-sleeved dark t-shirt, and his phone, cuffs and badge clipped prominently to his belt—made Aaron realize that this wasn't some outlandish hazing that Morgan and Elle cooked up.

Still, he was wary as he asked, "Murder?"

"Decapitated corpse in the room next to hers. Blood trail leading from there to her room. 'Save Her' written in blood over her headboard."

"Was it the guy she was with last night?"

"No idea," Morgan admitted as he ran a hand over his shaven head. "All Dupree gave me was what I just told you. The locals took her away around 6 a.m. She hasn't called me. Obviously, she didn't call you or Reid, else Reid would have called one of us."

"The police should have contacted the US consular when they arrested her," Aaron stated as he went over to his closet. He pulled out his suit and tossed it on the bed. "I'll call to make sure they know." He looked up to find Morgan staring at him.

"Five days in paradise and you bring a damn suit with you?"

He ignored the dig as he began changing his clothes and said instead, "She wouldn't do this."

"Hell, no. If she´s gonna off a guy, we´d never find the body."

Aaron let out a sharp laugh and shook his head. "Let's keep that defense in reserve. We can divide this up, then. I can handle the legal side."

"Yeah, and I'll charm the locals into letting me tag along." Morgan shook his head before shoving his hands in his pockets. "Can't catch a break, can we?"

"Doesn't seem so." He paused before venturing, "So that wasn't you calling me this morning."

"What call?"

"I got a call on the hotel line telling me not to waste time on the first victims." Aaron thought about the words again frowned. "The caller used plurals … 'they' … 'men' … so there's more than one."

"First, I didn't make that call," Morgan stated. "Second, they only found one body that we know of." He paced a bit more. "When I found out, I came straight to you. I haven't called Reid yet." Morgan glanced at his watch. "My friend Dupree said the locals were still processing the scene."

"I'll try Reid then," Aaron offered as he slipped on his dress shirt, "so you can get down to the locals. Cell reception is pretty crappy here."

"It's _supposed_ to be," the other man groused before giving a short wave and leaving.

Aaron let out a sigh before picking up his cell phone.

So much for a vacation.


	15. Book 2, Chapter 2: Vegas Confessions

**Keep the Suit, Lose the Nickname: **A Criminal Minds AU

_**Book 2 **__**All the King's Men**_

**Chapter 2: **Vegas Confessions

**Author:** Kuria Dalmatia

* * *

><p><em>"No one's afraid to confess about how they feel and try again. We're all just afraid of knowing the responses and getting hurt."<em>

* * *

><p>Spencer Reid shut the wrought iron gate before taking a few steps over the granite bench. He would have to talk to the groundskeeper again about the flowers; the ones selected weren't doing as well as Spencer had expected. Then again, he asked for a traditional English cottage garden to survive in the desert heat of Vegas. Contrary to popular belief, he <em>didn't<em>know everything; horticulture was one of those subjects that really never held much interest.

He sat down, placing his messenger bag at his feet before opening it and digging out a battered book. "Margery Kempe," he announced quietly. "Your favorite."

Spencer waited for the scoff, "One of her lesser works," because that was the joke between him and his mother. Kempe only had one book attributed to her, but there were various editions and translations available. Despite his phenomenal memory, there were a few things that he couldn't recall with accuracy. The origin of the Margery Kempe joke with his mother was one of them.

He swallowed as he looked up. The sunlight glinted off the polished granite Diana Reid's headstone. She had been dead for two years and the ache was still there.

Spencer still wrote daily letters although he no longer had someone to send them to. It was cathartic, he knew, and given the horrors of the BAU, he knew he needed some outlet. He thought about bringing them here and reading some of them aloud, but felt foolish for even thinking it. He didn't believe in Heaven or Hell; his mother was dead. There was no such thing as the afterlife.

Yet here he was. Spencer put the book on the bench and leaned forward. It was barely after eight; even after all these years, he missed the dry, cool Vegas mornings.

"They say when people speak to a grave, it's because they're confessing," he spoke quietly. "I guess my confession is that, it seems easier to visit you like this than it ever was while you were in Bennington. I guess it's because … I guess it's because … You're finally … you're finally at peace."

He sighed and closed his eyes briefly. The lavender, his mother's favorite, was strong and heavy in the crisp air.

"We have a new member on the team, Aaron Hotchner. I think you would have liked him. He's … thoughtful. Kind. Compassionate. I know the 'guy you want to take home' is clichéd but it's true and Aaron is anything but a cliché. He listens to me. He remembers our conversations." Spencer felt himself blushing, which was stupid if he really thought about it, because he was confessing to a gravestone and there was no one else around. "And before you think it's because he's trying to suck up to me, it's not that. He's genuinely interested. And …" He laughed as he stretched his legs. "I'm taking up _golf,_because of him."

Spencer wanted to say more but was unwilling to verbalize his feelings about Aaron. Saying things aloud made them real, and while he knew it was unlikely he'd be hurt or disappointed by Aaron, he was still cautious. "You told me always follow my heart. I don't know if I can. It's all so complicated."

He fiddled with the book in his hands. "I still haven't reconciled with Dad and I doubt I ever will. Did you know he asked me to write a letter of recommendation for Timothy? Dad had the nerve to tell me that I should do it because Timothy is my brother." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "He's my half-brother and I told Dad that if Timothy wants a letter so badly, he needs to ask me himself. Oh, and stop asking if I'm really an FBI agent. Dad said I was being unreasonable."

He glanced around the garden again when he caught sight of a small brown envelope wedged in one of the urns of lavender. Curious, he stood and pulled it out. On the front was "Doctor Reid" in simple block lettering, painfully precise in the lines as if trying too hard not to give anything away.

Or else Spencer was simply reading too much into it.

He opened the package and fished out a key. It was smaller than an old fashioned door key, almost like one designed for a jewelry box.

Weird.

Who the hell would leave him a key at his mother's grave? More importantly, who knew that he was a) in Vegas and b) planning on visiting the cemetery besides the Team? The only person in town that he could think of was his father. Was this his father's pathetic way of contacting him?

Spencer inspected the key for a few moments. He put it back in the envelope and then tucked the envelope in his messenger bag. "This better not be Dad's way of getting me to call him," he said dourly. "Because it really is rather lame." He sighed. "Really lame."

The shrill tone of his mobile broke the quietness of the cemetery. Spencer glowered, because if his father was behind this … yet his expression immediately changed to curiosity as he saw the caller ID: Aaron.

Aaron, who was in Jamaica with Morgan and Elle and calling him at eleven a.m. Jamaican time.

Strange. Odd.

"Hotch," Spencer said by way of salutation as he answered the line.

"Ah, sir? I know it's early morning where you are but we have a situation," the younger man announced. "Elle's been arrested for murder."

Spencer blinked, momentarily stunned at his subordinate's words but work-mode kicked in. "Tell me what happened."

Hotch's report was crisp and concise, like always, but there was an edge of frustration in his tone. Spencer knew it all too well: _We're supposed to be on vacation, damn it!_Hotch concluded with, "Morgan's shadowing the locals and I'll contact the consulate."

"Obviously, you can't represent her," Spencer stated as he put the Kempe book back in his satchel. He rubbed his eyes, wondering why the hell this crap always seemed to happen to his team.

"I guess next time I decide to go out of the country on vacation, I'll pass their bar exam first," Hotch quipped, although there was bitterness in his voice.

It caused Spencer to laugh. "You would do that, wouldn't you?"

"I'll take the Fifth." He cleared his throat a little. "Anyway, it's a moot point in the States. Since I'm a government agent, I'm barred from representing anyone except immediate family members and _pro se_."

"But you're counting on the Jamaican authorities not knowing that."

"You're not the only one with a poker face, sir."

Spencer smiled briefly before turning serious again. Facts and maps swirled in his mind. "The Miami field office is closest logistically. I'll call and get a forensics team down there as well as Bureau lawyers."

"Sir, it's going to take them at least three hours to get here."

"That's why you're going to go down to that police station, flash your badge, and bully them until you can speak with Elle, right?" he prompted, knowing Hotch would be more confident in his approach if he gave permission to throw his weight around.

Hotch answered with a crisp, "Yes, sir."

"I don't think there are any direct flights from here to Montego Bay, so I'll have a layover in DC. When I get my flights set, I'll call for an update." Spencer paused, knowing he had to give encouragement where he could. "We'll get this resolved."

"Absolutely, sir."

"Be careful," he added as he felt the worry settle in his stomach. He trusted that Aaron would keep himself in check and not make the situation worse. Still, he tacked on the incentive, "You owe me golf lessons when you get back into town."

Hotch snorted a little. "You be careful as well. You owe me dinner."

"It's a deal then," Spencer couldn't help but smile.

They ended the call and Spencer slid his phone back into its holster. He took a step towards his mother's gravestone and brushed his fingers across the top. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "Duty calls."


	16. Book 2, Chapter 3: The Only Good Lawyer

**Keep the Suit, Lose the Nickname: **A Criminal Minds AU

_**Book 2 **__**All the King's Men**_

**Chapter 3: **The Only Good Lawyer

**Author:** Kuria Dalmatia

* * *

><p><em>"The good lawyer is not the man who has an eye to every side and angle of contingency, and qualifies all his qualifications, but who throws himself on your part so heartily, that he can get you out of a scrape."<br>- Ralph Waldo Emerson_

* * *

><p>The good news was that a lawyer from the consulate—Thurston Gunnery the Third—had already been dispatched to the Montego Bay police station, so by the time Hotch got down there, the lawyer was already in with Elle. When Hotch announced himself to those at the station, he flashed his badge and ABA card, wondering if they would buy the bluff.<p>

There was some hesitation and a few shoulder shrugs by the locals who weren't impressed, but one of the officers eventually escorted him into the interrogation room where Elle was. She glanced up as he entered; the relief washing over her features was brief, replaced by a confident smirk because she had backup. When Hotch saw Gunnery, it was easy to see why.

Gunnery, a paunchy Caucasian man in his late fifties, was dressed in a loud Hawaiian shirt and board shorts. While there was some part of Hotch that chimed in with, _When in Rome…,_ another part screamed, _How the hell is anyone supposed to take you seriously?_

"Are you the lawyer from the FBI?" Gunnery asked as he stood.

"Aaron Hotchner," he introduced and they exchanged handshakes. "I'm a lawyer and I'm with the Bureau." Hotch looked over at Elle, who was wearing a thin black tank top and short-shorts, and immediately shed his suit jacket. She lifted her left wrist and he saw the handcuff. He glared at Gunnery. "Why is she restrained?"

"She kicked one of the arresting officers in the junk," Gunnery replied as he leaned back in his chair. The lawyer's gaze slid across Elle's bust, lingering just a little too long. "The little lady is dangerous."

"The 'little lady' is a U.S. federal agent, counselor." He wordlessly offered his jacket to Elle, who accepted it without hesitation. Admittedly, he was surprised that she hadn't said anything, not even a _Thank God, you're here._Then again, she probably figured that Gunnery had a misogynistic streak in him and decided not to give him any ammunition, even if it meant she remained chained to a chair. "Get someone in here to release her."

"You know island law then?"

"This isn't about 'island law.'" He took a menacing step forward, satisfied when Gunnery recoiled a little. "Agent Greenaway isn't some co-ed who got caught doing a line or two in the ladies' room. She's been arrested for murder based on evidence which is circumstantial at best. Get someone in here to uncuff her _now._"

Gunnery stepped up to Hotch. Hotch met his stare with an imperious one of his own. After a few moments, Gunnery looked away and then stormed out of the room. Hotch watched him, waiting until the door closed before he looked at Elle.

She arched any eyebrow at him. "You brought a suit on vacation?"

"They're my pajamas," he deadpanned.

"Smartass."

He rounded the table and took Gunnery's seat, turning it towards her. "Reid can't get a direct flight from Vegas, so he's going to DC first. The Bureau lawyers from Miami are due within the hour. Miami's also sending a forensics team. We'll get you cleared."

"Wait. I thought you said …" Elle narrowed her eyes. "You're not representing me?"

"I can't."

"You just said …"

"I'm a lawyer. I'm with the Bureau. I'm just not a lawyer _with_the Bureau."

"Splitting hairs."

"Like I said, I'm a lawyer." He offered a lopsided smile and was pleased when she gave him a small grin. He turned serious again. "What happened? Last I saw you, it was around ten. We were all in the bar and you headed off with that guy…?"

"His name _is_ Curt," she replied, emphasizing the present tense as she tugged his jacket closer around her body. "We went to his room …" Elle gave him a look and he nodded; he didn't need an in-depth account. "I got back to mine around midnight." Again, she wordlessly dared him to make a snarky comment, but he just met her gaze with a steady one of his own. "I went to bed. Alone. Next thing I know, these jackasses are breaking down my door, hauling me out of bed, and cuffing me. Hell _yes_ I kicked." She glared at the door. "And then I get _that _as my legal counsel."

"We'll get this cleared up. I promise. Morgan went with the locals to check out the scenes. He's going to meet the Miami forensics team at the airport."

"This is bullshit, you know. I'm on _vacation._"

"I know."

"Yet you have a suit."

"I told you. They're my PJs."


	17. Book 2, Chapter 4: ReeWenGee & Release

**Keep the Suit, Lose the Nickname: **A Criminal Minds AU

_**Book 2 **__**All the King's Men**_

**Chapter 4: **Ree-Wen-Gee & Release

**Author:** Kuria Dalmatia

* * *

><p><em>"Don't tell people how to do things. Tell them what to do and let them surprise you with their results."<br>-George Patton_

* * *

><p>It was <em>supposed to be <em>a vacation.

A vacation Reid had done some political and paperwork magic to ensure as many of his team—Gideon included—had the same time off. The only reason he hadn't pushed hard for JJ was because of the favor her husband had asked of him.

_"Jen's been talking about the annual leave coming up, how you're trying to get all of you the same time off. Well, you know how the Redskins are her favorite team and the training camp dates have been announced and they're all in late July. I'd like to take her and Henry there for a few days and then down to the Saints' practice. You know. I can't have my boy rooting for just his mama's team. So, can you, ah, make it so she has the July dates off instead of with y'alls?"_

Reid had obliged, using his best 'sad face' to regretfully inform JJ that her AL could not coincide with the team.

As for Garcia? Well. Her AL always centered around Comic-Con. This year was no different.

So when Reid learned that Elle was arrested for murder, he knew things were going to be bad. When he called Garcia to ask for help on booking flights to Jamaica, her dizzying deluge about honey pots, kernels, and back-tracking someone to the Dark Ages made his head spin.

"You've been hacked?" he finally asked, hoping he pieced together enough of her jargon to guess correctly.

"You can bet your sweet britches I have been," Garcia fired back, fury coloring her voice. "This hacker? Oh. He's going to pay. Pay hard and bad and … oh … I _cannot _describe the ree-wen-gee I'm going to visit upon him."

"Ree-wen-gee?" he asked.

"Revenge, sir. _Black Adder._But I promise you, I will find this son of a bitch, okay? Right now, however? The information highway is closed, so bye!"

The line went dead and Spencer blinked, momentarily stunned by her abruptness. He knew better than to call back, so he began scrolling through his phone contacts for the travel department.

A call from Agent Green interrupted him. _There must be more news about Elle. I hope it's good. _"Reid, here. Do you have an update on Greenaway?"

"Uh, Greenaway? No, sir," Green said. "I'm calling about the severed head that Agent Gideon received at his cabin."

* * *

><p>Aaron watched as a Bureau lawyer charged in and introduced himself as Javier Cueto to Detective St. Pierre, Gunnery, and Elle; Cueto barely gave Aaron a glance. Cueto then brandished the initial autopsy and stated how it cleared Elle completely of the murder. Aaron let out a sigh of relief that earned him a sharp elbow from Elle, which translated as, <em>You thought I was guilty?<em>

"I didn't think it would be this fast or easy," Aaron admitted in a low voice as they watched Detective St. Pierre leave the room with the report in hand. Gunnery and Cueto exchanged handshakes, although it was clear that Cueto wasn't particularly impressed with his Jamaican counterpart.

Cueto turned to where Elle and Aaron sat, and politely ordered Aaron to leave. Aaron knew why—to ensure client-attorney privilege—but he still waited until Elle nodded.

Once out in the main area of the department, he spotted Morgan and immediately went over to him. "Cueto from the Miami office turned over the autopsy report," he stated quietly. "St. Pierre's reviewing it now. The victim was dead at least six hours _before_we arrived on the island, so they don't have anything to hold her on."

Morgan nodded. "He's in with her now?"

"Yes, along with the lawyer from the consulate." He checked his watch. "Hopefully, St. Pierre won't pull some bureaucratic bullshit and keep her here."

"And that's why you're not going to share with the locals that Gideon got a head in a box delivered to his cabin until she's officially cleared," Morgan stated, as he glanced around. "Get this. The originating address? Jamaica. Quantico's ID'd the head. Marty Harris, and that's the name of the guy who checked into the room next to Elle's. The connecting room to Harris' was reserved under the name Frank Giles, and he checked out yesterday morning."

"Which places him here at the time of the murder. That doesn't make sense. It's too obvious," Hotch commented as he crossed his arms over his chest.

"Yeah, which is why Miami's running Giles's background right now."

"Why not Garcia?"

"Her systems are completely down. Someone hacked her."

Aaron blinked in surprise and held back, _That's impossible. _She took security seriously and badgered Aaron until he brought in his home computer so she could "bring it up to code." The news made him shiver despite the stuffiness of station.

"There's one more thing." Morgan heaved out a sigh. "We've been recalled . Reid thinks someone's playing a game with us and he wants us all in one place."

"You get to tell Elle."

"Oh, no no no, man. _You're_ wearing the suit. _You _get the job."


	18. Book 2, Chapter 5: Connections

**Keep the Suit, Lose the Nickname: **A Criminal Minds AU

_**Book 2 **__**All the King's Men**_

**Chapter 5: **Connections

**Author:** Kuria Dalmatia

* * *

><p>"<em>A boss creates fear, a leader confidence. A boss fixes blame, a leader corrects mistakes. A boss knows all, a leader asks questions. A boss makes work drudgery, a leader makes it interesting."<br>- Russell H. Ewing _

* * *

><p>Once Reid received the updates from his various team members, he immediately recalled them to Quantico. If someone was playing some elaborate game with him and his team, having everyone in the city made Spencer feel much more comfortable. The second call with Garcia once he deplaned in DC had been the most difficult, as she explained the circumstances that lead to being hacked.<p>

"You're gonna be angry," Garcia told him.

"Penelope," he urged softly.

He heard the sob. "I was playing a game. A game on my personal laptop that doesn't have the same security as the Bureau networks. On my break, I swear it was on my break! But …"

"That's how the hacker got in," he concluded.

"I am so, so sorry. I swear that …"

"You'll fix the problem. You'll track him down. Then we'll get him and put him in prison for hacking the FBI."

"Oh, sir. They don't jail people like him," Garcia said quietly. "They hire him."

Reid almost laughed, because he knew how Penelope Garcia came to the FBI; he still had her homemade pink stationary resume in his desk. His hand brushed the strap of his messenger bag as his thoughts returned to the key. Coincidence? He shook his head. "We'll get this sorted out. I promise."

"I'm so sorry, sir."

"I know. We'll deal with it, okay? But right now, we need to move on."

As he ended the call, he knew that another round with IA was on the horizon and the best way to shift the odds in his favor were to bring Strauss in on the front end of it. She was less likely to meddle with the investigation if he made her feel part of it, giving her the illusion of controlling of it.

So once he arrived in Quantico, Reid headed straight to Strauss' office. The meeting took longer than he expected—negotiating to keep Garcia active on the case had been particularly difficult—but by the time he was finished, he knew the rest of the team had arrived.

Reid strode into the conference room, unsurprised to find Hotch and Morgan pacing on either side of the table, Gideon hovering by the evidence board, and Elle and JJ sitting with papers strewn between them. Hotch looked over at him and rolled his eyes a little, as if to say, _Can you believe this?_

Reid gave a slight nod. He definitely felt the same way.

Photos of Marty Harris's severed head and the Jamaican crime scene, as well as a Nellie Fox baseball card which had been in the box with the head, were already pinned to evidence board. On the whiteboard was a timeline that included "phone call to Hotch's hotel room," "delivery to JJ," and "Garcia hacked." On the table was a butterfly shadowbox that had been delivered to JJ at the office earlier that day. Neither JJ's husband or a member of her family had sent it.

Reid fished the baggie with the key out of his pocket, walked over, and pinned them next to the baseball card. "Someone left this for me at my mother's grave."

"This joker knows you visit your mom's grave?" Morgan asked angrily.

"Apparently so," Reid replied as he sat down next to JJ. He rubbed his eyes, which were still dry and itchy from the flight from Vegas. "Let's go over the events again." He thought about ordering Gideon, Hotch and Morgan to sit, but realized that they would be fidgeting in their chairs. Sometimes, it was just better to let them pace.

They were halfway through when Garcia entered the room, tears in her eyes as she wrung her hands. "The hacker only focused on your personnel files," she announced but refused to meet anyone's gaze. "Just this team, not anyone else in the BAU."

"How did he get in to your systems in the first place?" Gideon demanded.

Before Reid could offer an explanation, Garcia stuttered, "I was playing a game."

There were gasps around the conference room and Reid did his best not to wince.

"My personal laptop doesn't have the same security as the Bureau's does. I know that sounds whacky because, hello! But it doesn't. He was able …"

"A game?" Gideon snarled at her. "How could you be that _stupid?_"

In a blur of movement, Hotch rocketed over to where Gideon and Garcia were standing. He faced the older agent while shielding the tech analyst. There was a fury in Hotch's eyes that Reid could feel even though he was sitting at the far end of the table.

The fact that Hotch _didn't _say anything was even more telling; the younger agent didn't trust himself.

Reid knew things could escalate, just by the way Gideon's hand twitched. He stood up and was about to call them both down when Garcia interrupted with, "I know who he is, the hacker. His name is Giles, Frank Giles. He lives in Arlington, Virginia, four miles from here. I have his address."

"Giles?" Morgan echoed. "Wait a second. That's the name of guy who checked into the adjoining room with Harris."

Gideon now glared at Reid. "Did you know this?"

The chief knew that Gideon was referring to Garcia, not to who had checked into the resort. He could see Garcia hastily wiping away the tears as Hotch continued to block her completely from Gideon. Having a discussion of 'who knew what when' wasn't going to be productive, especially since Gideon still felt he should have the same depth of information that Reid had. Reid didn't want Garcia hampered by guilt more than she already was, which was why he initially withheld the information from Gideon.

He knew he'd have to explain that reasoning to Gideon later. And the best way to do that was in a car over to the alleged hacker's apartment.

"Morgan, contact the Arlington PD and have their SWAT meet us at the address Garcia has for Giles," Reid ordered, gaze never faltering from Gideon's. "JJ, monitor the media in case our UnSub decides to go public with this." He waited for their acknowledgements before he walked over to Garcia. She refused to look at him; no matter what punishment the Bureau could come up with, it was nothing to how Garcia now felt. He carefully set his hand on her shoulder as he looked over at Gideon again. "Garcia, good work tracking Giles down."

"Sir …" her voice was watery.

"Just get your systems back online," he told her. Finally, she looked up, tears still brimming in her eyes. Softly, Reid said, "We move on."


	19. Book 2, Chapter 6: Devil's Advocate

**Keep the Suit, Lose the Nickname: **A Criminal Minds AU

_**Book 2 **__**All the King's Men**_

**Chapter 6: **Devil's Advocate

**Author:** Kuria Dalmatia

* * *

><p><em>"You must be careful how you walk and where you go, for there are those following you who will set their feet where yours are set."<br>-Robert E. Lee_

* * *

><p>"Are we in the middle of an Indiana Jones movie?" Elle demanded as they stood in Frank Giles' apartment with a bed in the middle of the room, a dead body on the bed with a sword protruding from his torso.<p>

Hotch couldn't help but chuckle a little. Elle was right; all this bullshit bespoke of an UnSub with way too many hours on his hands. He peered at the inscription on the sword. "To learn of what should next be done, leave the blade 'til the hour be none."

"Well, midnight is zero-zero hundred hours in 24-hour time. Would that be 'none'?" Morgan asked.

Hotch thought for a moment. The logic was sound, but "Midnight wouldn't cast a shadow."

"It's medieval," Reid announced quietly. The chief walked forward, arms crossed over his chest, as he continued, "The days used to be broken into hourly intervals. The canonical hours of the breviary. Prime: 6 A.M. Terce: 9 A.M. Sext: 12 noon. None: 3 P.M. And vespers: 6 P.M. We'll need to close the blinds and get a spotlight in here to find out where the UnSub left the next clue."

They setup the spotlight and, once they located the spot on the wall, Morgan used a hammer to punch a hole in the drywall. There, they found a music box. Reid stated that the key left at his mother's grave would probably open it, and ordered team back to Quantico instead of jimmying the lock here.

It was also clear the apartment of Frank Giles was nothing more than a stage for their UnSub to deliver another set of gifts.

Marty Harris. Frank Giles.

Pawns.

It explained the cryptic message to Hotch while Jamaica. These two men, presented to the BAU in such a dramatic way, were to get them emotionally invested in the chase. To taunt them, to show that the UnSub was clearly one step ahead of them.

CSU was tasked with scouring the apartment for any additional forensics, but they all agreed that there wouldn't be any.

Reid ordered them back to Quantico with the latest items and also asked what they wanted for lunch. Ever since that mess in Harringtonville, Reid became a stickler on meals.

Now, the Team (sans JJ and Garcia) devoured deli sandwiches around the conference table. JJ had gone back to her office with her lunch to search if there were any pending cases that could be related to this. Apparently Reid had dropped off Garcia's lunch in her lair and also found out that neither Harris nor Giles had the background to hack into her systems.

Hotch looked over the evidence recovered from the apartment. Reid was correct in that the key opened the music box. Inside was lock of hair and a DVD; the box played Shubert's Trout Quintet. They added these items to the list on the whiteboard.

So far, the only member of the team who hadn't been involved directly somehow was Morgan, which didn't sit well with Morgan at all. Was there something else out there for Morgan? Or did the UnSub feel that Morgan wasn't worthy of the attention?

"Maybe it's on the DVD?" Elle suggested as she picked up the remote.

It wasn't.

Instead, they were treated to video of a girl being held hostage as the UnSub's raspy voice outlined his conditions for the quest. When the photos of the Team came on screen, the realization of how thoroughly the UnSub had stalked them hit. They weren't culled from newscasts or the internet. These were ones the UnSub had personally taken.

Morgan playing football with a bunch of gangly teens. Gideon leaving the National Museum of American History. JJ walking with her husband and son in a park. Elle dancing with an older Latino. Garcia holding hands with a weeping woman. Reid conversing with the FBI's second in command at some coffee shop. Hotch lining up a shot on the driving range.

_Good God._

Suddenly, JJ came tearing into the conference room, holding up a clear plastic evidence bag with a sheet of paper in it. "A courier came to our home and gave this to Will," she said as she handed it to Reid. "When Will opened it and saw the numbers, he brought it down here immediately."

"Did the courier say anything to Will, like this was part of a quest?" Reid asked.

"No," JJ answered. "Will bagged it, grabbed Henry, and headed over right away."

"There won't be any forensics," Hotch commented quietly as his gaze drifted to the board. "The UnSub is too careful. If he can track three of us to Jamaica, have a key waiting for Reid in Vegas, and send a head to Gideon's cabin, he damn well knows Will is an ex-cop who knows how to handle evidence."

"Is Will still here?" Reid asked as he pinned the newest piece of evidence on the board.

"He's in my office with Henry."

"Bring him in, please."

"What are you thinking?" Morgan inquired.

"He's seen our UnSub, or has met with the guy who has seen our UnSub."

A few minutes later, the former New Orleans detective came in the room followed by JJ, who carried their son. "Something was off about the whole delivery," Will told them. "JJ called me earlier about the butterfly box, asking if I had sent it. So when this guy shows up with this? I hightailed it down here. Guess we're lucky that today's the only day I'm not teaching."

"Not luck," Elle corrected as she suppressed a yawn. "Like Hotch said. This scumbag knows us. Knows our routines."

"Will isn't named as part of the quest, though," Hotch commented.

"What does that matter?" Gideon's tone was frosty, disdainful.

Hotch bit back his reply and glanced over to where Reid stared at the latest piece of evidence, clearly lost in thought. Hotch knew that they needed Reid's leadership, not Gideon's, but he had no clue on how to prompt the chief into action.

He barely listened to the questions that Gideon was asking Will as he made his way over to the evidence board. Hotch knew sometimes that all he had to do was stand next to Reid and the chief would snap out of his internal musing. Yet as he read over the numbers, something on the paper caught his attention. "A coded message."

It was an obvious statement and Hotch wasn't sure why he said it aloud.

"I was thinking that, too," Reid agreed. "In the video, didn't the UnSub say something about a book?"

"Yeah. 'A book that inspired many an adventure.'"

"A book code," the chief murmured.

That was when Hotch heard Gideon declare: "Tell the world."

He turned to face the older agent. He repeated, "Tell the world?"

"He may have seen this son of a bitch," Gideon replied icily.

When no one jumped in, Hotch knew it was up to him to play Devil's Advocate. "Didn't he say that we had to keep this within the team?"

"Since when do we allow an UnSub to dictate how we run an investigation?"

The silence in the room was painful. Hotch dared to glance at the chief. Reid's brow was furrowed as he agreed, "We do need to talk to the courier."

Hotch glanced over to LaMontagne, who watched the exchange with keen interest. Hotch said, "The courier wore a uniform. We can pull employee records …"

"My systems are still kaput," Garcia told them miserably. "And the CTU jerks aren't sharing."

"No offense, but we're not crippled by the lack of Google. We can make phone calls," Hotch argued. "Will, you saw the name of the delivery company. You can give us a description of the man who delivered this. We call the company or go down there. Get dispatch to bring him back to the office or else we track him to his next stop. Question him then. We hold off on the press conference if those leads don't pan out."

Gideon snapped, "We need to make a statement."

"I'm tired of being one step behind this bastard," Morgan added as he stood up. "He's been running the show since the get-go." The unspoken, _Time to remind him who he's messing with, _clear. Morgan glanced over at Elle, who despite fighting back a yawn, agreed with a nod of her head. Garcia stared at her hands and Hotch knew she thoroughly blamed herself for what was happening.

Hotch immediately remembered Reid's words from the Palm Springs bomber case: _Don't keep your opinions to yourself. _It was why he wouldn't let this drop. It felt wrong.

"He has our personal information. Look at the photos he has taken of us! This is organized. Methodical. He's been planning this for a long time. How else would he have been able to infiltrate Garcia's systems the way he did? The UnSub has all this detailed information about us and it can't be all from a database or a telephoto lens. Gideon, do you seriously think that your personnel file lists that Nellie Fox is your favorite baseball player?" Hotch turned to JJ. "Or that you collected butterflies as a child? These are _intimate _details."

The older agent's grin was sharp, unkind. "A press conference is gonna send the right message."

"_We _call the shots," Morgan needlessly added.

"If we want to call the shots, then we do what we do with every other case," Hotch fired back. "Start with victimology. The girl in the video."

"And take a chance on losing a witness?" Elle scoffed. "Hell, no."

"We're _not _losing a witness …"

"We'll approach it both ways. Press conference and phone calls," Reid finally interrupted, voice quiet yet still seemed loud in the room. The chief habitually listened to all of his agents before making a decision, and this was no different. This time, however, it was a hell of a lot more aggravating.

"And the press conference will be _after_ we find out the identity of the driver," Hotch insisted, frustrated by Reid being so fucking _passive _about the whole situation. Sure, it was stepping on toes but, damn it, Gideon already stomped on Reid's.

Reid lanced him with a harsh stare, one usually reserved for local cops who overstepped their bounds. Stunned and chastened, Hotch closed his mouth and looked away.

"The press conference and phones calls will be simultaneous," Reid announced. "Gideon and JJ? Talking points for the press conference. Will, if you haven't already, sit down with our sketch artist. Morgan can show you the way. Elle, call Katie Coles in CAC unit and run our victim's photo. I'll stay here and work on the code. Garcia?"

"I'll get my systems back up, my liege. I swear."

"Hotch? Phones with the courier company," Reid concluded.

"Yes, sir," Hotch said with as much professionalism as he could muster, even though he knew he was being punished for his perceived insubordination. He couldn't bear to look over at the man who once declared himself _Friend, lover, confidante. Whatever you need._

As Hotch gathered his things, he didn't miss the condescending look in Gideon's eyes.

_Suck it up, Hot Shot,_ he told himself firmly. _Suck it up._

* * *

><p>It hurt to call down Hotch, but Reid worked with Gideon long enough to trust the man's instincts. Yes, the strategy would likely anger the UnSub but in the past, getting the UnSub off his game usually produced the best results.<p>

Still, the look of betrayal that Hotch had given him followed with the crisp, "Yes, sir" (which sound suspiciously like _Fuck you_) was a sharp ache in Reid's belly.

_Once the case is over, he'll understand. He'll see that this dual approach is the best way to get the answers the fastest,_ he consoled himself. _Put it aside. You've got a case to solve. _Spencer also had to update Strauss on what was going on.

Delivering the newest information wasn't going to be pleasant, and based on the length of his first meeting with Strauss, it wasn't going to be a short one either. He did agree with Hotch regarding the time the UnSub took to stalk them and create this elaborate quest. It was wholly unsettling that the UnSub had this much information on his Team.

Some son of a bitch had created an elaborate quest for his Team, people he considered his family.

And no one fucked with Spencer Reid's family.

No one.

* * *

><p>Of course, the press conference yielded the fastest results; the delivery company happened to be one of the largest in the area and Hotch played phone tag with six people who didn't seem to comprehend the words, "Federal investigation."<p>

He tried his best to ignore the nagging voice which chided _Told you so,_but Gideon's triumphant "Yes!" when it was announced that someone was here to see them about the press conference really irked him. Hotch still stayed on the phones, out of stubbornness more than anything else, until the courier was brought up to Interrogation. He joined Morgan and Will as the man was settled in the room.

Will confirmed the driver's identity the moment he saw him behind the glass, and then Morgan began the interview. Hotch and Will went out into the hallway and walked towards the bullpen.

"They want to put me and Henry up at a hotel," JJ's husband drawled as he shook his head, "like I'm some defenseless housewife. Just because I don't carry a badge anymore…" He trailed off and shoved his hands into his pockets.

Hotch knew he didn't have to explain why they were being moved to a more secure location; LaMontagne had been one of the top detectives in New Orleans before he chose to be with JJ after Henry was born. He also understood how galling it was that people forgot that, being dismissed as a milquetoast househusband when the man was anything but that.

Will glanced at him. "As long as I've been around, I've never seen anyone challenge the old man like that."

Hotch supposed that "old man" could be deemed as a term of affection for Gideon, but somehow … Hotch got the sense that it wasn't. He shrugged, not trusting himself to answer.

"Jen told me a bit about the case. This whole 'quest' goose chase," Will continued. "That son of a bitch is gonna be pissed that y'all broke the rules."

"It could throw him off his game," Hotch replied diplomatically, although he was grateful that he had at least one ally in his way of thinking. For him, holding that press conference was too much of a risk. "It could give us the opening we need."

"Spoken like a gentleman," he laughed. "Where in Dixie are you from again?"

"Virginia." Hotch grinned a little. "And I think my answer was more 'lawyer' than 'gentleman.'"

"And here Jen says you don't have a sense of humor." Will grinned.

He laughed and shrugged, but another thought struck Hotch. It was a stupid question, sure, because it wasn't like a former cop was just going to walk out of his house with his only son and not be armed, but Hotch had to make sure. He didn't know what kind of gun Will carried, but he still offered, "Need rounds?"

"Have two already plus my daddy's trusty Winchester," the man answered, a pleased tone to his voice. "Thanks for asking."

"Of course."

They looked up when they heard JJ pushing the stroller down the hall towards them. She looked frustrated and worried. "No new news," she addressed Hotch before turning to her husband. "Reid wants to get you guys settled at the hotel ASAP."

"Making his list and checking it twice?" Will asked with mild annoyance as he rounded the stroller and stood next to JJ.

"I'll let you two go," Hotch said before extending his hand. He exchanged a short handshake with Will. "Take care."

"We will."

Hotch headed back over to the conference room, surprised to find Gideon there and Elle was crashed out on the couch. There was no sign of the chief, which probably meant he was still dealing with Strauss. Hotch was suddenly filled with trepidation, knowing that whatever was going to happen next wasn't going to be a good thing.

Gideon barely glanced at him before checking his watch. The older agent went over to where Elle was sleeping and shook her shoulder. "Elle."

Instantly, she sat up. "I'm awake."

"I'm sending you home."

"No," she protested as she pushed his hand away and stood.

"You haven't slept in 36 hours," Gideon sounded paternal as he spoke. "Go home." Then, he looked over his shoulder. "Hotchner will take you."

Hotch immediately straightened and took a step forward. There was no way in hell Gideon was kicking him out. "Anderson is still …"

"That's an order, Agent Hotchner," Gideon's tone was icy.

Elle protested, "I'm fine."

"She's fine," Hotch echoed, because even though he knew she wasn't, his own ego wouldn't allow him to be summarily dismissed—which was exactly what was happening—because he dared to challenge Gideon's authority in public.

Gideon sneered, his voice barely above a whisper, "I gave you an order."

Hotch was about to argue, when he felt Elle grip his elbow. "C'mon."

"Which hotel then?" Hotch demanded of the senior agent.

Gideon fixed him with a look. "What?"

He stared. "Which hotel will I be taking Elle to? The same one as Will?" Elle's grip tightened on his elbow. "This UnSub has our personal information! A secured location …"

"Enough!" Gideon barreled forward, getting right up in Hotch's face. "You're allowing yourself to be spooked like some rookie over a few Candid Camera moments. You're giving that insignificant little man power that he doesn't deserve. You're a goddamn BAU agent, Hotchner! This isn't some Mickey Mouse SWAT club. Act like the agent you're supposed to be! Or aren't you man enough?"

Hotch sucked in a breath. He straightened. The words struck him to the core.

Elle's grip was painful. "Let's go, Hotch."

Gideon stared him down.

Hotch could continue to argue. He could delay until Reid got back and have the chief back him up, but _Reid has already sided with Gideon once. You saw how wrapped up he was with the evidence and dealing with Strauss._ That nagging voice of his father rang through his mind. _You little sissy boy, all scared like the pansy-assed, cocksucking faggot that you are._

Experience told him that this wasn't a fight he was going to win, nor was it worth the attempt. Hotch broke away from Gideon's gaze, looking down and to the side as he asked Elle, "Where's your bag?"

"At my desk," she answered. She then addressed Gideon. "You'll call if anything comes up?"

"Of course." Gideon replied.


	20. Book 2, Chapter 7: Hot Shot

**Keep the Suit, Lose the Nickname: **A Criminal Minds AU

_**Book 2 **__**All the King's Men**_

**Chapter 7: **Hot Shot

**Author:** Kuria Dalmatia

* * *

><p><em>"Look not back in anger, nor forward in fear, but around you in awareness."<br>-Ross Hersey_

* * *

><p>The ride to Elle's home was spent mostly in silence, with her yawning out directions when she remembered that Hotch didn't know how to get to her place. As much time as the team spent together, only JJ and Will had any of them over. He refused to think about the time Reid was in his apartment because the thrill he used to get about it was now sour and dull.<p>

He pulled into her driveway and shut off the engine. Elle got out of the car, slinging her bag over her shoulder and trudging to the front door. Hotch followed, hitting the remote lock for the car.

"What the hell?" she groused when she heard the chirps of the alarm. She glared at him over her shoulder.

"We're dealing with an UnSub who has all of our personal information, including our home addresses."

"Jesus Christ, Hot Shot, give it a rest."

He lifted his chin. The use of his old nickname burned. "Absolutely not."

"This is about the argument with Gideon, isn't it? Okay, yeah. It was a bit out of line, but for God's sake! You _are _acting like a rookie. Get over it! Look, you've dropped me off. You can go back. You won't miss a thing."

"Elle …"

"You're a sore loser."

Hotch marched up and towered over her. He rarely went into bully mode with any member of the Team, but, "Taking you home doesn't mean dropping you off. You should be at a hotel like LaMontagne … some place we've already secured."

"I heard your back in Quantico! For fuck's sake, stop being so goddamn paranoid!"

"I'm not leaving you alone."

For a split second, he thought she was going to kick him in the balls. Elle didn't; instead she shook her head and spat, "You're _such _a sore loser, Hot Shot."

He didn't respond, just waited patiently as she fumbled with her keys and got the front door open. She walked in and immediately dropped her bag on the floor next to the window seat. Her holster, cell phone and keys landed on the table. She then sat down on the window seat.

Hotch stared at the bay windows behind her. He dropped his voice to a whisper. "They're open," he told her and jutted his chin.

Elle glanced behind her before stretching out on the cushions. "My neighbor takes care of the place when I'm gone. She's totally New Age and this is a way to release the 'evil spirits' so I won't succumb to darkness in my own home," she said dismissively and settled on her side. "As for you? Talk about taking a hit from the paranoia pipe. You're worse than my neighbor's father. Fucking relax, okay?"

But he couldn't. His belly was on fire like it always was when he knew that something was wholly wrong. He pulled his Glock from his holster and flipped the safety off.

"Oh, Jesus Christ, Hot Shot," he heard her mutter as he slowly made his way through her living room. He wished he had the tactical illumination option on his Glock that Morgan had, since he didn't have his own mag light handy. Elle lived in an older home, one with odd angles that provided lots of places for people to hide in the shadows.

Living room. Clear.

Kitchen. Dark and full of shadows but the backdoor was closed. He moved towards it but then the nagging voice in his head chimed in with, _You're such a fucking pussy. There's no one here._

Hotch let out a breath. He lowered his weapon. _Clear._

He continued.

Hallway. Clear.

Half-bath. Clear.

Linen closet. Clear.

Guest bedroom. Clear.

Master bedroom. Clear.

Master bath … Poor lighting because of the glass block windows. Yet … a flicker of movement behind the shower curtain. A shadow that wasn't supposed to be there.

"I told you that there was one rule!" a male voice rasped as the shower curtain was wrenched to the side.

Hotch caught sight of the gun. He yelled, "FBI! "

Suddenly, a shot rang out. He automatically fired two quick ones of his own. White hot pain seared through him before his left side went numb, his breath stolen.

It was weird watching the shower curtain and rod crash down, because his body seemed to follow along.

Aaron fell, hard. His gun clattered to his side. There was a black blob crumpled in Elle's shower. Aaron's head hit the back of the bathroom door as he slid to the ground.

Elle suddenly loomed over him, gun drawn and screaming, "Motherfucker!"

Aaron stared upwards, wondering why the hell Elle had a popcorn ceiling in a historic home.

He then wondered why the hell he was thinking _that _when there was a goddamn UnSub in her bathtub.

Christ, such a fucking cliché to find the bad guy hiding in the shower. He could hear the teasing from the team now: _Hot Shot's Shoot-Out in Elle's Bathroom._

He felt hands on his shoulder and chest. "You stay with me, goddamn it!" Elle ordered fiercely.

Aaron frowned as he looked into her eyes and saw tears. Surely, he was mistaken. Elle didn't cry.

"You stay with me you stubborn son of a bitch!"

"Elle …" he got out, confused that she looked so terrified.

And then everything went black.


	21. Book 2, Chapter 8: Paying the Price

**Keep the Suit, Lose the Nickname: **A Criminal Minds AU

_**Book 2 **__**All the King's Men**_

**Chapter 8: **Paying the Price

**Author:** Kuria Dalmatia

* * *

><p><em>"Through pride we are ever deceiving ourselves. But deep down below the surface of the average conscience a still, small voice says to us, something is out of tune."<br>-Carl Jung_

* * *

><p>It took careful negotiation combined with an explosion of statistics to keep Strauss from pulling Spencer's team from the case. He agreed to continual updates but was able to persuade her from making an appearance in the bullpen. He didn't need her as an additional distraction. When Strauss began her diatribe against Garcia's game playing on Bureau time, Spencer fired back with the estimated number of minutes per day it took to nurture a Bonsai tree.<p>

Strauss had backed off after that.

Still, the entire ordeal gave him a headache. When Reid walked back into the bullpen and found Morgan and JJ at Morgan's desk, he was a bit surprised. They should have been in the conference room working on the case. The fact that the conference room door was closed could only mean one thing: Gideon and Hotch were at each other's throats and Elle was refereeing.

_Shit._

David Rossi once said that being a unit chief was synonymous with being a dad. There was that fine line of praise and discipline. Refereeing arguments. Giving time-outs. But today, Reid sided with oldest children while the youngest looked at him with betrayal that Reid knew wasn't going to go away any time soon.

Because Reid knew that Hotch had very valid points. Hotch was a protector by nature, the oldest son who spent his teenage years trying to shield his little brother from the abuse at home. Yet now, in the BAU, Hotch was at the bottom of the pecking order of older and more experienced profilers and agents. Hotch did struggle, but kept his ego in check for the most part.

Hotch only went into "lawyer mode" when he firmly believed in something. And that was why Reid's compromise of doing the press conference—_Breaking the rules so the UnSub makes a mistake,_ his mind whispered—and the phone calls—_The safest approach because the UnSub knew way too much about them_—had clearly upset Hotch. Hotch made his argument, a very solid one that included sound bites from lectures and insights that Reid and Gideon had given over the past year, and hadn't won.

Reid knew it was going to sting, and that Gideon and Hotch were likely to go at each other for the rest of the case. Hotch hated losing almost as much as Gideon despised being proven wrong.

And now? God.

Screw the so called "clean slate."

Reid was stuck playing Dad again when he should be cracking the goddamn book code.

Oh, for the days when Rossi ran the show. Hell, Reid would even take Cooper and those stupid meetings in the health club instead of the conference room.

Reid shook himself from his reverie. He approached JJ and Morgan, noting how both agents stood and fidgeted. He dismally wondered just how nasty the argument between Gideon and Hotch had been to drive both Morgan and JJ out. Elle probably stayed in there, just to keep them from coming to blows. "Morgan …"

"The delivery guy got a grand in cash to deliver the package to Will," Morgan cut him off. "Said our UnSub was badly scarred, like a burn victim. His voice was raspy and he moved kinda slow. Hotch had said the guy who called him in Jamaica sounded raspy too, so it's possible that it's the same person."

"We got a hit from CAC," JJ added and held out a file. "Rebecca Bryant. She went missing from South Boston, Virginia two years ago. There's not much to go on, just the first report from the locals. There was no follow-up because the girl ran away several times before. One time, it was for two months."

_Victimology,_ Reid thought and resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. He knew better than to second-guess himself, but Hotch had been right. They got caught up in the emotionalism of the case, the insult of being lead around by an UnSub who thought he was something more than he was. A cold chill ran down Reid's spine. _Why did I trust Gideon so quickly when I knew that his judgment has been off since the Bale bombings? Because I couldn't stand the fact that some UnSub is making us dance to his tune._

Reid took the file and flipped through it. The details were scant, but a few things stood out about Bryant: drug abuse, vandalism, theft, truancy. He closed the file and looked at JJ. He knew the answer before he asked, but he did anyway. "Do Gideon, Hotch and Elle have a copy of this?"

"Um … Gideon sent Elle home. She hadn't slept in 36 hours and crashed out on the couch," Morgan said. He paused before adding, "He ordered Hotch to take her."

Reid kept his features blank, although he wondered if they could see the anger in his eyes. Hotch would obey the directive because the man followed the chain of command. And while sending Elle home was logical, Gideon's blatant exertion of his authority over Hotchner and disobeying Reid's order that they all stay together … _Shit._

_No time for this now, _he told himself. Reid thought for a moment, calling up the map in his head. "South Boston is a three and a half hour drive from here," he stated but then recalculated. "Two forty-five if Morgan drives. JJ, go with him. We need to find more on Bryant."

Morgan nodded crisply. "Let's go, JJ."

"Stay together," Reid ordered firmly. "No excuses." They both acknowledged him and he dismissed them both. Tapping the folder against his leg, he made his way up to the conference room, his anger building with each step.

_I was only gone for an hour and __**this**__ happens. _

So Reid opened the door, walked in, and shut it sharply. Without preamble, he declared, "You sent Elle home without clearing it with me."

Gideon was peering at the evidence board, his back to Reid. "She hadn't slept in 36 hours."

"Is she at the same hotel as Will?"

"What?"

"Is she at the same hotel as Will?"

"No. Why?"

"You sent her to an unsecured location."

"Hot Shot is with her," Gideon said dismissively, with that little wave of his hand.

The use of Hotch's retired nickname let Reid know precisely what had happened. He tried his best to keep the scowl off his face. "We already know the UnSub isn't working alone."

"Giles and Harris were nothing more than pawns," he scoffed. "I shouldn't have to explain that to you."

Reid marched up, grabbed Gideon's shoulder and spun him around. "There are more than two pawns in a chess set, Gideon! This UnSub … he could have people waiting in our homes …"

"Hot Shot is with her," Gideon repeated and shook the hand off his shoulder. "Or did you suddenly lose confidence in your prized pet?"

"I thought we were over this pissing match with him!"

"I've been doing this job for almost thirty years," he told Reid coldly, "and one of the few things Rossi and I agreed on was that an UnSub was an UnSub! Look at yourself! Allowing this pathetic little loser to lead you around like some toddler."

"Being cautious does not translate as being weak," Reid ground out. "And we're not allowing him to control this investigation." He held up the folder before pushing it hard against Gideon's chest. "Hotch was right to start with victimology first. He was the only one of us who put his ego aside long enough …"

"That little prick's ego could fill this room," Gideon snarled. "He's been sniffing around the BAU for years …"

"That's not the point."

"He's after your job."

"So is everyone else," Reid fired back. "You _don't _think I know about the political maneuvers that happen around here? You think that I'm some naïve little boy who hasn't done this job…"

"I _made _you."

The verbal slap made Reid stand straighter. He peered down, using his height as a factor because he knew how much Gideon despised being loomed over. Softly, with a deadly edge that conveyed the full brunt of his fury: "Yes, you may have opened the door to the BAU, but you did not make me the man I am today. I earned this, just like I earned everything else in my life. I _worked_ for it. So do yourself a favor and stop pretending that you're some kind of deity, because you're not. You're not omniscient. You're _not_ infallible. You make mistakes, but unlike everyone else on _my _team," he stressed the possessive, "you're like a spoilt child who refuses to admit that anything could be your fault."

There was shock in Gideon's features, which quickly turned to that smug little grin. That expression, one that Reid had seen so many times over the course of his career, triggered a sudden epiphany for Reid. Gideon was clearly crediting himself for Reid's 'insight,' for Reid being able to stand up for himself.

He then realized that since joining the BAU, Gideon made a show of playing "mentor" more than Rossi. Reid hadn't honestly thought much about it because Gideon was like most professors he'd dealt with over the years. Gideon liked to show off his protégé and garner accolades from people for doing such a great job grooming him. Yet, honestly, Reid learned just as much about the Job, about being a man, and about dealing with life in general from David Rossi.

Rossi didn't want the spotlight while Gideon seemed desperate for it, dead set on being seen as a "good dad" to at least one kid.

But Gideon wasn't a good dad, not now. Not after the disaster in Boston which robbed Gideon of his self-confidence. The Bale Bombings changed the man—it changed all of them but none as profoundly as Gideon. Reid recalled Hotch's words from that hotel room in Alabama, how they all wanted to believe their mentors could do no wrong. He remembered his own response, that he truly (if erroneously) believed that everyone could bounce back from everything.

There was part of Reid that wanted to reestablish his authority, to take the power from Gideon, but the ruthlessly logical part of him chimed in with, _Hotch will take care of Elle. You know he will. And we need to focus on victimology in order to save Rebecca Bryant._

It took some willpower to rein in his temper. His voice was that hardened command tone he learned from Rossi with the soft deadliness of Cooper. "Right here, right now, we focus on victimology. We lost sight of that." Reid pushed the folder against the older agent's chest again. "Morgan and JJ are on their way to South Boston, Virginia, to dig up information on the girl in the video, Rebecca Bryant. Garcia's still working on getting her systems back up and running."

For a moment, the two men stared at each other.

He straightened, letting the folder go and watching in satisfaction as Gideon quickly grabbed it. The older man's features were unreadable, and Reid wasn't up to devoting more time to decipher what Gideon was thinking.

"We need to go back to the beginning. Rework the list. What do we know about the UnSub? What kind of training and funds would he have to have to pull this off? I'll continue with the book code."

For a moment, Reid wondered if Gideon would follow the order but after a very long pause, Gideon nodded his head. He walked over to the whiteboard and erased what Morgan had written. Reid went to the evidence board and began methodically reviewing what they had. They worked tensely, quietly. The only sounds were from the rustle of their own clothing as they moved and the squeak of the dry erase marker on the whiteboard.

The buzzing of his phone broke Reid's concentration. He plucked it out of the holster and, for a split second, stared confused at the caller ID: Elle. He answered with, "Elle, I thought you were …"

The words died in his throat as he heard the wailing of a siren in the background. "Hotch has been shot." Elle sounded furious. "The UnSub was in my bathtub _and shot him! _Goddamn it!"

Reid's blood ran cold. _Aaron was right. Oh God, Aaron was right. _Guilt rushed through him but he fought it back. Guilt wasn't going to do a damn bit of good right now. "Where are you?"

"EMTs are here … I'm …" she paused and he could hear her stomping around. "I'm so totally going with him. _That's my partner, goddamn it!_ Deal with it!" It was followed by a series of Spanish curses.

"Elle!" he snapped sharply, ignoring the gestures Gideon was making at him.

"He was clearing my house," she explained, voice high and tight and so totally not Elle. "He was clearing my house and got to my bathroom and that fucker was waiting for him and shot Hotch!"

"What about the shooter?"

"Dead," she spat out. "Hotch took him down with a headshot. In my bathroom!"

"What hospital is he being taken to?"

"GW," she answered, "and I'm going with him."

"Do you have an ID on the shooter?" Normally, Reid wouldn't have to prompt. Normally, Elle was tough as nails with a been-there-done-that nonchalance. Yet this … Reid knew why she was totally off her game: exhaustion coupled by the chilling fact that Hotch was gunned down in her home.

"Heavily scarred face and hands," Elle replied, "like he survived a fire."

_It fits the description the courier gave, _Reid thought before he said aloud, "I'll get CSU down there right away. Tell the locals not to process the scene until our crew gets there."

"Okay." She made a frustrated noise.

"Stay with him."

"You're goddamn right I'm going to stay with him."

"I'll meet you at GW as soon as I can," Reid told her before saying goodbye and ending the call. He let out a slow breath, forcing himself to calm down. When he looked over, Gideon was staring at him. Reid slid his phone back into its holder. "An UnSub was waiting for Elle in her home. He exchanged fire with Hotch, who took a bullet and is being taken to GW now. The UnSub is dead. Elle says he matches the courier's description."

There was a split-second pause before Gideon shrugged, as if he expected it to happen. It made Reid's stomach churn. _When did Gideon develop such a blatant disregard for a fellow agent? _But that couldn't be addressed now.

"It shouldn't take long to ID him." Reid went to the board and pulled the paper with the code off. He grabbed his messenger bag from the chair and carefully put the page inside. "I'll call Morgan and JJ. We'll still need to have them interview Bryant's parents. This UnSub isn't going to make finding the girl easy."

"Where are you going?"

Reid barely glanced over to the older man, who had become frighteningly still. "To the hospital. I've got the rest of this," he gestured to the board and then tapped his temple, "in here. I'll call if I come up with anything."

"So I'm supposed to sit here?"

"No, you and Colson are going to the coroner and get us an ID. Then, you both are going to work on how our dead suspect fits in to this whole thing. We travel in pairs. No exceptions. Is that clear?"

Gideon's eyes narrowed a little and gave a slight nod.

"I need a verbal acknowledgement," Reid insisted, because damned if he was going to be blamed if Gideon was hurt not following his orders.

"You want a 'yes, sir'?" Gideon asked, his voice just on the edge of a taunt.

"That's how you're supposed to address your unit chief."

The older man twitched again but finally said, "Yes, sir."

Satisfied, Reid strode out of the conference room, suppressing the guilt as best he could as he headed towards Garcia's lair, signaling Green to accompany him. Garcia wasn't going to like having a shadow, but Reid wasn't taking any more chances.

_Aaron's been shot. Protecting Elle. Shot because I agreed with Gideon's decision to hold that press conference. Shot because I didn't listen to the one man who never puts himself above the team. _

For the first time in a very long time, Spencer Reid wished he believed. But he knew Aaron did so he did it for Aaron. _Please, God, don't let Aaron die._

* * *

><p>Agent Anderson subscribed to the Derek Morgan School of Driving: fast and 'no such thing as stopping distances.' Usually, Reid rode in the backseat with all the maps and files while someone else rode shotgun. He would never admit that Morgan's driving could be downright terrifying and the less he actually witnessed it while riding, the better off he was.<p>

Today?

Reid didn't care. His orders to Anderson were direct: "Get us to GW fast. Once there, take Elle back to her place to work with CSU. See if the UnSub left any additional messages. Have her pack a bag and get her to the same hotel as Will. Make sure they have adjoining rooms. I don't care if you have to put them up in a suite. Stay with her no matter what. This UnSub? He's not working alone."

Anderson didn't question him after that, concentrating on his task while Reid made the call to Morgan and JJ. Reid had already contacted Will directly and then his team at the hotel; he wasn't going to fail a second time.

Knowing Morgan would want to turn the car around immediately, he placed the call to JJ because she would hear him out. When she answered, Reid said, "I need you listen to me and not say anything to Morgan until I'm done."

"Okay," JJ told him and the wariness in her voice spoke volumes. She could always read him well.

"Hotch was shot inside Elle's home." Reid stared out of the window. "The shooter is dead and Elle says he matches the description that the courier gave us." It suddenly occurred to him that he had no idea what condition Elle was in. Had she been injured? He'd forgotten to ask. Then again, it was unlikely Elle would admit to any kind of wound if Hotch took a bullet for her. He forced himself to go on, "They're taking Hotch to GW, which is where I'm headed and Elle is waiting for me."

JJ let out a slow breath. "Okay."

"Your orders are to interview Bryant's parents and the lead detective on the case. This UnSub … he may not be working alone and the girl is still missing." He counted to five before he said, "I know Morgan will want to turn around, but we need that information on Bryant. There's nothing you can do at the hospital except pace and wait."

"I understand." JJ's tone was flat, distant.

"I called Will to brief him on the situation. The team at the hotel has been put on high alert," Reid went on. JJ's gasp of relief was barely audible, but it made his belly twinge all the same. "Garcia's got a shadow as does Gideon, who is going down to the morgue for an ID. As soon as I get any updates, I'll call."

"Please tell me you have someone with you." JJ's voice was soft, worried.

"I've got Anderson," Reid replied and noted how the younger agent sat a little taller. "I'll stay at the hospital and he's going to stick with Elle."

"She's going to eat him alive," JJ told him.

"I have sauce and napkins in my bag," he replied dryly and earned a light laugh from her. His tone then became hard. "Stick together. No splitting up. Period. Is that understood?"

"Yes," JJ said.

"Good. Call Garcia when you get any information." He hung up once JJ said goodbye and he stared out the window.

"Sir?" Anderson ventured cautiously, attention firmly on the road. "Um. Sauce and napkins?"

"For when Elle eats you alive," Reid replied.

"Oh."

Reid looked over. "I'm still not good at telling jokes, am I?"

That won a small grin from Anderson. "No, sir."

* * *

><p>When Spencer entered the waiting room, Elle rocketed to her feet and quickly closed the distance. Her rosary was clenched in her fist. She stopped cold when she saw Anderson coming in behind him. He wondered if she would have embraced him if the other agent wasn't there. As prickly as she could be, Elle required her fair share of hugs. Spencer was always surprised that he got the honors, but it was always in private.<p>

No one else got to see Elle Greenaway break down.

No one.

"Hotch is still in surgery," she reported, but she refused to look at him.

Spencer pulled out his wallet and dug out two twenties. He hated making the other agent a glorified errand boy, but he knew that Anderson understood. "Could you?" Spencer handed the money to Anderson. "The greasiest burger the cafeteria has but put it on squishy white sandwich bread. Extra pickle, no onion, no lettuce, lots of tomatoes. Tartar sauce on the side. Two large coffees." Spencer almost laughed at the horrified look that briefly crossed Anderson's face; the other agent had no idea about Elle's comfort foods. "Get whatever you want but get something. We're not resting until this stops."

"Yes, sir!" Anderson scurried out of the room.

Elle poked him in the ribs. "And what are you going to have?" but her teasing sounded strained.

"I had a Greek yogurt with honey and a protein bar before you called," Spencer replied.

He watched as her face suddenly contorted and she turned her head away sharply. Her voice cracked. "It should have been me."

"Stop that, Elle."

"First Boston? Now _this_?"

"You weren't medically cleared to travel to Boston." Usually, he wasn't the type to grab someone's chin to force her to look at him, but he did with Elle. "You had kidney stones."

"Donnie had no business going in there! He never cleared a bomb scene in his life!"

"Don Hazelton did his job," he countered fiercely, just like he'd done after his agent was killed by Bale. "Just like Hotch did."

Tears welled in Elle's eyes. "I ridiculed him, Reid. I called him Hot Shot. You know how hard he worked to get rid of that. All because I told him to."

"He's not going to hold it against you." He released her, stepping back. "If you would have been hurt …" He trailed off.

Aaron could probably give 'ferocious' lessons to Morgan on protecting the team. Spencer remembered what Aaron was like in that bar in Seattle when they first met … how now Aaron took it upon himself to look after everyone, including the interlopers from Quantico, after a case. And now? Aaron continued to do so, with a 'one beer limit' before switching to iced tea but only ordered the beer in the first place if JJ and Elle gave him epic amounts of shit about it.

Elle interrupted his thoughts with a shrill, "How did that fucker know I was going home? He was _waiting_for me! Jesus, do we have a goddamn mole in the BAU?"

Spencer swallowed hard, because that was another possibility. Their UnSub knew way too much. Way too much about them. Personal things. Things that people only shared in quiet conversations with close friends, not colleagues. _Please, don't let this be some crazy scheme Gideon came up with in order to eliminate Hotch._

Spencer rallied, because he didn't want to believe anyone that was in the BAU could betray them so profoundly. "The UnSub had access to our cell phone information. He hacked Garcia's systems. He could have used the GPS locators and tracked us. He waited until one of us left."

"I left with Hotch!"

"Hotch lives at the Langley," he replied. "Forty-five minutes in the opposite direction of your …" He trailed off as his thoughts began tumbling. "Your house." Spencer yanked opened his messenger bag and pawed around for his atlas. "So … the UnSub's observing the cell signals," he muttered mostly to himself. "Tracking you … you specifically. Why you?"

"I live the closest to the office."

"You're a woman and live alone," he corrected as he continued to search. Of all the times not to have his atlas with him. "The UnSub knows our personal information. He knows that Will teaches firearms for the Virginia State Police and law enforcement classes at two colleges. The UnSub is too calculating … too organized to take a risk like that."

Elle crossed her arms over her chest. "Goddamn it, I'm the best shot the BAU has."

"Had," Spencer corrected as he pulled out his notebook. Sketching the map from memory just had to do. "Hotch blew away your scores his first week in."

"He didn't goddamn tell me. That little bastard."

"And you didn't hear it from me," he retorted as he fished out a mechanical pencil. "But our UnSub also framed you for Harris's murder down in Jamaica. He knows you have to be working on little sleep. He believes you're weak." Spencer clicked the pencil until the lead appeared as he sat down in the chair "He's going on gender bias, not on actual interaction. He doesn't know you. Personally. He doesn't know any of us personally … just … third party information."

"What are you saying, Reid?" she challenged.

"That every thirty-four days, I make damn sure I have a stash of double-stuff Oreo cookies for you."

"That's sexist."

He didn't look up as he began sketching. "It's biology."

"And JJ?" she snapped.

"Twenty-nine days and Andes mints. I figured out she was pregnant a month and a half before she announced it," Spencer replied calmly. "Did you know there is a lot of debate about the syncing of menses? It's the only subject that I've ever been literally slapped upside the head for when I started to talk about it." He looked over. "Rossi hits like a nine-year-old girl."

Elle looked at him and then choked out a giggle. "_The _David Rossi hits like a nine-year-old girl?"

"Don't tell him I told you that."

"He'll hit you like a guy then."

"Precisely."

She paced a little before settling into the chair next to him. She watched him sketch for a minute before she finally said, "He dropped him in my shower."

Spencer glanced over. "What?"

"Hotch. He yells that he's FBI and drops the son of a bitch with a headshot while the fucker's in my goddamn shower." She crossed her arms over her chest. "A fucking headshot. One mirror. Glass block windows but that side of the house was in the shade. No lights. Sniper's challenge." Then she frowned and hugged herself again. "But that personal thing … You're not making sense. This UnSub … he knows personal things about us, things that we only tell our closest friends but he doesn't know us personally?"

Spencer shook his head. "I know. I know. I can't wrap my head around it. Gideon, JJ, and I were the only ones who got very specific gifts. Why us?"

He quickly drew his map with rough landmarks. His first circle centered on Quantico and how long, on average, it took to get to Elle's home given the time of day. The second centered on Elle's home and he used the same the average time to see where the two overlapped. The next set of circles was probable distance traveled at the end of the press conference. It gave a much wider overlap but it was likely the UnSub's home base was within those areas. It wasn't much to work with, but it was still something they could narrow down.

Spencer drew for a few more moments before saying, "I need you to tell me exactly what happened at your home from the moment you pulled into the driveway."

So Elle did, voice breaking when she told him about Hotch noticing the windows were open and her making fun of him. Her dozing on the couch when she heard the shots. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Hotch looked so confused, like he didn't know he'd been shot. His white shirt was already mostly red."

"Locals said the backdoor was forced?" Spencer prompted.

"Forced but closed. Hotch… I don't think he checked the door. Probably because I made fun of him. If he had …" She wrung her hands in her lap, rosary wound around her fingers. "I sat on my ass in the goddamn living room." Her tone was full of self-hatred. "I didn't have his back."

"You were exhausted."

"No excuse."

"So you're going to hate yourself for trusting him? He's not going to blame you," Spencer assured her quietly, careful to keep his attention on his drawing. He thought about how Aaron tried so hard not to be judgmental, especially when something went wrong on a case. "He's not that kind of man." Spencer sketched one of the expressways. "I don't blame you. This is not your fault. It's not Garcia's fault either. Neither of you caused this.

"We have an UnSub fixated on us … who has been fixated on us for at least two years when Bryant went missing. Two years is a lot of time." Spencer added the second highway. "It takes money to do what this UnSub accomplished. Independent wealth. It also takes an obscene level of skill to do what he did to Garcia's network."

Spencer drew the map's scale at the bottom of the page.

"He's clearly organized. Disciplined. But this attack was … it was disorganized … it couldn't have been part of his original plan. He named you specifically in the quest, so why try to eliminate you? It's like … The UnSub clearly believed that we were going to follow his instructions. Having that press conference … it infuriated him." Spencer shook his head. "It made him go off script."

_And that's precisely the angle that Gideon is going to take when he tells his side of the story. Does he even care that Aaron was gunned down? That it could have been Elle if Aaron hadn't insisted on securing her home? _Spencer thought to himself.

Anderson cleared his throat from the doorway of the room. "Greasy mama burger with tomatoes and tartar on the side. Two coffees."

Spencer continued to work. "And yourself?"

"A grilled cheese with burn marks resembling a Cylon."

"Classic or reboot?"

"Classic, sir."

Spencer looked up and then shifted his gaze to Elle. "Eat."

"This is _yours?_" Anderson squawked in disbelief as he stared at Elle.

"Sauce and napkins are in my bag," Spencer reminded him blithely.

Anderson's eyes widened, but he got the hint. He shuffled forward and handed over the bag to Elle, who had stuffed her rosary in her pocket. He set the cup holder with two coffees and a Red Bull on the table. Packets of cream and sugar were piled in the middle.

Spencer set the sketch aside and began making up his coffee. Elle pulled out the burger, inspected it, and then tasted the tartar sauce. Satisfied, she dipped the edge of the burger into the small container and began eating. Anderson gaped.

After she took her third bite, Spencer sipped his coffee—burnt and watery but still coffee—and stated, "Anderson's with you until we finish the case. No arguments."

"Reid!" she protested with a mouthful of food.

"No. Arguments." He met her look with a hard one of his own. "You're heading to the hotel where Will is, staying in the adjoining room, and getting some sleep. Anderson is with you. Will is watching over Henry and Rawson has taken point at the hotel. If this UnSub has a partner … we don't know if the man Hotch killed in your shower was the dominant or the submissive or just another pawn. The organized killer or the frenzied one, if there is more than one. No risks. No more hospitals."

The fire died in her eyes. The hamburger rested in her lap. "You?" she challenged.

"I'm staying here at least until Hotch is out of surgery. I'll call the office to get someone to pick me up." He then smiled ruefully. He tapped his temple for the second time that day. "Until then … working from home."

"You know that A plus you got for humor a while ago?" Elle asked.

"Yeah?"

"You just failed again."

Spencer shrugged. "I get one joke a year."

She laughed a little. She finished her sandwich. Anderson chugged the Red Bull like a frat boy at a beer pong party.

"No risks," he reminded them both as they headed towards the door.

"No risks," they repeated.

And Spencer went back to his sketch. The book code could wait.

The geographic profile couldn't.


	22. Book 2, Chapter 9: Vigil

**Keep the Suit, Lose the Nickname: **A Criminal Minds AU

_**Book 2 **__**All the King's Men**_

**Chapter 9: **Vigil

**Author:** Kuria Dalmatia

* * *

><p>"<em>Guilt is the very nerve of sorrow."<br>- Horace Bushnell_

* * *

><p>Six hours had passed. Six hours in which they ID'd the body (Randall Garner), got the background on Rebecca Bryant nee Garner, and the BAU's second unit located and rescued Rebecca Bryant.<p>

Garner's home was in the exact area that Reid predicted from his hand drawn map. It was yet another validation that their methodology—when they did it the correct way—worked.

And while Spencer could have sent Gideon to the address, he forbade the agent from leaving Quantico. Yes, Gideon could have been an integral part of the recovery, but Spencer wasn't above his own pettiness and motivations. He recalled Aaron's observations on Gideon's need to be needed; he knew that Gideon would position himself as Rebecca's savior if given the chance. So he used the very valid excuse that until they were certain that Garner did not have any additional accomplices, Spencer was not lifting the 'travel in pairs' edict and he knew damn well that Gideon would take off unless he gave a very specific order.

Now, Spencer edged into the ICU room where Aaron was resting. Security had already taken up point outside; Spencer wasn't taking any chances on an attack at the hospital. If the UnSub went off script once, the loss of his partner or pawn or whomever could cause him to rapidly devolve and become even more unpredictable. Until they were certain that the UnSub was working alone, they would all stay covered.

Spencer walked up to Aaron's right side, trailing his hand along the blanket as he looked at the monitors and translated the readings.

Stabilized.

Strong.

Ventilator assisting his breathing, but expected.

Spencer gently grasped Aaron's hand, which was unnaturally cold. Aaron radiated heat, which was why Elle and JJ tended to fight over sitting next to him on the jet during those chilly flights. There was more than one occasion where Aaron ended up sandwiched between the two on the couch, Morgan calling him a man whore and Aaron asking if Morgan wanted to snuggle too.

Spencer would have gladly taken him up on the offer.

_You have it so bad for him,_ his mind chided. _You were so set on not showing any favoritism towards him that your decision resulted in him being shot! It was followed by a forlorn, You almost lost him._

Spencer knew he couldn't change anything, that he had to move forward. It didn't stop the guilt that flowed over him. He squeezed Aaron's fingers. He brushed that errant lock of hair from Aaron's forehead, the one that seemed to escape the confines of even the best hair gels by ten in the morning. The lock that, along with the dimples, added to his charmingly boyish looks when he smiled.

His words were soft. "We located the girl. Her name was Rebecca Bryant. We don't have all the pieces yet … how this UnSub knew so much about us … but when we do, I will do everything in my power not to let this happen again. And when my gut tells me that you're right, I'll follow that instinct and not give a damn about what other people think. I'm sorry I doubted you. I really am."

He held on for a few more moments before reluctantly releasing Aaron's hand. Having being in too many hospitals over the years and familiarizing himself with the equipment, he knew that the whole "cell phones interfere with medical equipment" was mostly bogus, but he reached for the hospital in-room phone anyway.

He called Elle first, followed by Garcia, JJ and then Morgan. He asked Morgan to relay the update on Hotch's condition to Gideon. Spencer reminded all of them, "Until we're sure that the threat has been neutralized, we stay in pairs. No exceptions."

Finished with his call to Morgan, Spencer hung up the phone and then pulled the hard plastic chair next to the bed. He made sure his shield was clearly displayed so he wouldn't be arbitrarily kicked out. Spencer leaned forward, pressing a benevolent kiss on Aaron's forehead.

"You owe me golf lessons, do you understand?" Spencer told him quietly. "I'm going to arrive at your apartment and you're going to help me with my stance. I'm going to make comments about balls and shafts and strokes until you blush and stammer. Then, I'm going to ask to kiss you. I hope you say 'yes,' Aaron. I hope you'll somehow forgive me for all of this." He squeezed Aaron's hand again. "I will make this up to you. However I can. Whatever I need to do. I swear."

* * *

><p>"He's still slacking off?"<p>

Morgan's question jolted Reid awake, causing him to nearly fall out of the chair. He blinked and scrubbed his eyes, careful of his contacts. He'd spend the night at Aaron's side, somehow managing to charm the night-shift into allowing him to stay. He struggled to get his bearings as he checked his watch again. It was almost eleven in the morning.

Spencer blinked. "They took him off the ventilator three hours ago."

God, the look of terror when Aaron woke up and struggled against the tubing down his throat was still fresh in Spencer's mind. And when Aaron's gaze—confused, pleading, frightened—met Spencer's, all Spencer could do was stutter lame reassurances and stroke Aaron's forehead trying to calm him down until the nurses got there.

He'd never seen Aaron look so scared.

He never wanted to see it again.

He rubbed his eyes a second time before he was able to look up and see Morgan standing at the threshold of the ICU and sliding his credentials back into his pocket. The man's tone may have been obnoxious, but there was no mistaking the worry in Morgan's features.

Morgan remained silent for a few moments before finally entering the room. In his left hand, he had an FBI file.

Business.

Reid checked his phone, thinking he must have slept through their attempts to contact him. No. _They would have called the hospital directly … Aaron's room directly …_

"What is it?" Reid prompted and when Morgan looked over, he nodded towards the file.

Morgan's posture changed again, this time his shoulders slumped like they did when he was about to give really bad news. He cleared his throat, which was unusual because Morgan wasn't the type to pause like this. He took two quick steps forward and then stopped. His voice was low. "CSU finished their rounds at Garner's. It took them awhile; they needed to call in the bomb squad because Garner had a shitload of explosives in one of the rooms. Garcia checked his background out as well."

"And?"

"Garner was a patient at Bennington."

Reid felt as if his heart stopped. He closed his eyes, dreading the next words but knew what was coming.

"He knew your mom."

Reid forced himself to breathe.

"CSU found two of your letters to her at Garner's place."

Reid's gaze flew up to meet Morgan's as things clicked into place. He surprised himself with how steady his voice was as he said, "The ones mentioning Nellie Fox and JJ's butterflies."

Morgan nodded. He shifted again. Quietly, Morgan told a story of a house fire that killed the whole Garner family except for Randall and Rebecca. The time Garner spent at Bennington. The doctors observing that Garner attended Diana Reid's lectures.

Morgan explained CSU finding the notebook that detailed Garner's plans, how Reid became Sir Percival in Garner's mind. How Sir Percival would answer his question, save the girl, and Garner would be healed once and for all.

The burning in Reid's veins began. He gripped his thighs, willing himself not to scratch the insides of his elbows.

"What question was he gonna ask, Reid? Do you know?" Morgan finally asked. "I mean, this guy was sick and all, but a question to heal him? Seriously?"

Letters of the alphabet began to swim in Reid's mind. The images of the evidence they collected joined in the dance. Reid swallowed hard as he thought about Garcia's knight that she met online. "Sir Kniegfh. It's an anagram for Fisher King." He did not let his gaze drop from Morgan's despite the pain of his words. "Garner must have believed that if I ask him a question, his wounds would be healed. But the Fisher King wound is one to the mind, not to the body. There is no right question, Morgan. There isn't."

Morgan looked away first. "This shit is fucked up."

"I don't think I can include that particular phrasing in my official reports," Reid replied as he looked back over to Aaron. The words fell out of his mouth. "I bring this man to our team and he gets hurt …"

"Doing his job," Morgan interrupted. "Or is that just a bullshit line you feed us so you can wallow in the guilt all by yourself?"

"I know he was doing his job." His voice was soft. "But I can't help but feel that I'm the catalyst for this, Morgan."

"Garner being fucked up in the head is the catalyst," Morgan shot back. "Don't you make me go and repeat all your damn lectures." Morgan stormed up to him. "And you know as well as I do, Hotch would never be able to forgive himself if Elle had gotten shot instead of him. He'd fucking resign because he'd suffocate from the guilt 'cos he's that kind of guy. So as fucked up as all this shit is, it's fucked up this way for a reason."

"That is the worst line of logic I've heard from you in a year," Reid retorted.

"This shit ain't exactly logical."

"And you're speech pattern is definitely becoming more colloquial."

"You wanna rumble over it, skinny boy?"

"I'm a pipe-cleaner with eyes," Reid corrected, anger coloring his voice.

"Yo," came a raspy voice. "shut the fuck up."

Reid rushed over to Aaron's beside and quickly grabbed his hand. He looked into Aaron's bleary gaze, thrilled to see the spark there. The bit of humor through the haze. "Morgan accused you of being a slacker. I was setting the record straight."

"Boss man _thinks_ he's setting the record straight, bro," Morgan corrected as he stood next to Reid, "but you _are _totally a slacker. Look at you, lounging in a stylin' bed just waiting for all the pretty nurses."

Reid then saw the panic surging in Aaron's eyes as the injured man seemed to recall the events that got him here. Reid felt the man's icy fingers clutch his. Reid knew the question that Aaron was going to ask, so he said firmly, "Aaron, Elle is safe. I swear to you, she's safe."

"You took down that son of a bitch," Morgan added. "Elle's with Anderson and Will at the hotel and she's teaching Henry the good Spanish."

"And the girl in the DVD?" Reid continued, tightening his hold on Aaron's hand. "Her name is Rebecca Bryant. We found her. She's safe. It's all over, Hotch. It's all over."

"You need to rest up, man," Morgan told Aaron. "You hear?"

"Elle's okay," Aaron whispered.

"I swear," Reid declared. "I swear to you she's okay." He watched as Aaron nodded faintly and his eyes slipped closed. Aaron's hand went slack in his. Reid let out a slow breath. "She needs to be here the next time he wakes up."

"I'll call Elle and hang out here," Morgan offered. "You should go. You look almost as bad as he does."

Reid nodded, forcing himself to move his hand away from Aaron's. As much as he hated leaving, he knew he had to. "Keep me updated."

"You got it."

Reid turned to towards the door.

"Hey," Morgan called out. Reid looked over his shoulder. "None of us blame you, man. It ain't your fault. It ain't Garcia's or Elle's … it certainly ain't yours. And telling your ma about us? There ain't no crime in that."

Reid offered a sad smile. "I realize that your words are meant be reassuring, but your grammar … it gives me a headache."

The other agent grinned. "But I got you to smile. And I meant what I said."

"I know." He nodded towards Aaron. "Take care of him."

"I'll tone down whatever Garcia has in mind. We don't want him to have a stroke from embarrassment."


	23. Book 2, Chapter 10: Homecoming

**Keep the Suit, Lose the Nickname: **A Criminal Minds AU

_**Book 2 **__**All the King's Men**_

**Chapter 10: **Homecoming

**Author:** Kuria Dalmatia

* * *

><p>Hell, Aaron Hotchner decided, was being stuck in a hospital bed without pants and his female coworkers parading in and out. The urinal on the rollaway table was especially humiliating. <em>A new kind of hell,<em>he amended because he'd been various versions of hell his entire life.

And when two of the three women fussed over him because they believed they were the reason he was in the hospital?

_Oh God. _Aaron had been self-sufficient for so much of his life, so this crush of attention was overwhelming and unnerving.

There was Garcia's brand of fussiness, which included decorating his hospital room like one in the children's ward, tying balloons his IV pole, and presenting him with a hospital gown with a jacket and tie printed on the front so he would be "dressed properly." The nurses adored it, of course, and made sure that it was laundered promptly so he could wear it as much as possible.

Then, there was Elle's brand of fussiness, which included harassing the nursing staff to ensure he was "treated like the goddamn hero he is!" He overheard more than one heated argument in Spanish between Elle and one of the nurses. When he asked Elle to take it easy, he earned a glare that convinced him not to ask again. He realized that she was working through her own guilt and there was nothing he could do to alleviate it.

Aaron got somewhat of a reprieve from JJ, although having someone he considered a kid sister acting all motherly towards him was uncomfortable.

Morgan kept him up-to-date on the IA inquiry—"Strauss hammered Reid and you know he belly-flopped on a grenade for Garcia … hell, he'd do it for all of us, but shit, have you ever won an argument against him that he _wants _to win?"—and the resolution of the Garner case. As to what triggered Garner to focus on them, to create this elaborate quest, Morgan became quickly evasive and told him to ask Reid.

It wasn't until the day that he was to be released that Reid finally showed up. Okay, Aaron knew that the chief had visited during Aaron's stay in the hospital; he vaguely remembered waking up in the middle of the night to find Reid in the chair next to him and it happened more than once. He somewhat recalled Reid's explanation about Randall and Rebecca and some long dissertation about the evolution of golf balls, but it was all slurred in his mind.

"I hear you're being released today," Reid said as he gave that half-wave and entered the room.

"Kicking me out is more like it," Aaron corrected as he fumbled with the bed controls so that he was sitting more upright. Of course, he had to be shot on his left side and his left hand was basically useless because every time he moved, there was too much pain. The bullet punctured the top of his lung, narrowly missing the major veins and arteries. However, it clipped his clavicle and damaged his left shoulder ligaments on the way out. The hospital specialist told him that it was a pretty spectacular bullet wound.

Reid smiled and shrugged. "You, ah, _want _to stay here? Because I'm pretty sure I can talk them in to extending your stay."

"God, no!" Aaron protested. "Please. I've had enough of this."

The chief nodded and moved to the side of the bed. "I wasn't sure if your brother was picking you up or if you were meeting him back at your apartment …"

Aaron couldn't help the scowl that crossed his face; he didn't know that answer either. The Team, in all their good intentions, apparently thought having his college-age brother babysitting Aaron during his recovery was a good idea. Then again, Aaron had purposefully perpetuated the myth that he and Sean actually got along, going so far as to do a little bragging about Sean's scholarship to Georgetown and acceptance letters to various law schools.

What the team didn't know was that Aaron hadn't spoken to his brother since Christmas, and even that was a short phone call to wish the younger Hotchner 'Happy Holidays.' They didn't spend the holidays together. The last quality time they spent with each other was when Aaron helped out—oh, who was he kidding?—was when he _completed _the law school applications for his brother because Sean had asked.

Home, even with a difficult brother, was still home. It was why Aaron said, "I just want out of here."

"I can take you home if you'd like."

He stared for a moment; the hesitation in Reid's voice surprised him. Aaron's mind then translated the chief's posture and tone of voice. His conclusion stunned him.

Guilt.

As skilled a poker player as Reid was, his guilt was so evident …

"It's not your fault," Aaron blurted.

His words startled Reid, causing the man to take a step back. Then, the chief shook his head. "Aaron …"

Undeterred, Aaron continued, "I should have taken Elle to the hotel where Will was staying and sent a team to clear her house. We should have had teams at all our…"

"I was Randall Garner's target."

"What?"

"Randall Garner was a patient at Bennington along with my mother," Reid explained, sadness clear in his features. "He stole two of her letters from me, ones were I wrote about JJ and Gideon." He made a face. "Garner used those letters to create this quest." He shoved his hands into his pockets. "Which lead to me to ignore the sound advice of a trusted agent, one who never puts himself above the team, because my ego wouldn't allow me to be one-upped by some guy who acted like he was smarter than us ... than me. I failed you, and for that, I'm deeply sorry."

It took a few moments for Aaron to digest the information. It explained why Morgan was so cagey with details on the IA investigation and why all three women completely avoided the subject. Aaron knew that Garcia had received a five day suspension without pay, but she still kept her job. There was no word on if Reid had been suspended, but surely if the man had, he would have shown up during the day to visit.

Aaron could easily blame Reid for being shot. Clearly, Reid was expecting him to by how rigid his posture was despite the slouch of his shoulders. However, Reid apologized. He admitted his mistake outright. Reid made no pretense of hiding behind Gideon for the decision to hold the press conference, and _that _was something that Aaron wholly respected.

"It's not your fault," Aaron said again.

"Will you at least accept my apology and pledge to make it up to you?"

He considered his options for a moment. He could certainly hold this over Reid, using the chief's guilt to his advantage. Aaron found that he couldn't. So he offered, "How about you get me home and we call it even?"

Reid looked up, looking as weary as Aaron had ever seen him. "Okay."


	24. Book 2, Chapter 11: The 19th Green

**Keep the Suit, Lose the Nickname: **A Criminal Minds AU

_**Book 2 **__**All the King's Men**_

**Chapter 11: **The 19th Green

**Author:** Kuria Dalmatia

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><p><em>"In everyone's life, at some time, our inner fire goes out. It is then burst into flame by an encounter with another human being. We should all be thankful for those people who rekindle the inner spirit."<br>- Albert Schweitzer_

* * *

><p>Admittedly, Aaron's forgiveness was frighteningly quick to earn. It didn't ease Spencer's conscience because he knew that it was one thing to say everything was okay while doped up in a hospital room, but it was something else completely when they were out in the field.<p>

What would Aaron's reaction be when Reid favored someone else's plan/reasoning over his during a case?

He knew he had to push those thoughts aside. Aaron was out for a minimum of five weeks; rehab was going to take some time, which meant desk duty until he was cleared for the field. Spencer knew that the younger agent would push himself to recover faster, so he'd already planned on ways to keep Aaron feeling like part of the team without him compromising his health.

While Spencer called daily over the past ten days since Aaron's release, he didn't stop by Aaron's apartment. The aftermath of the Garner case had kept him in the office extremely late, preparing for and then testifying at the IA hearings. That was on top of his normal workload and being one profiler down.

Another reason he kept his physical distance was he was concerned that his presence may overwhelm Aaron. Spencer remembered how he felt while recovering from various injuries over the years. The crush of people stopping by quickly became annoying. Garcia and Elle already took turns stopping by Aaron's place, using the excuse that they were making sure that Sean Hotchner was taking proper care his brother. However, when Spencer pressed for details, the women would only say that Sean was a typical frat boy and he looked and sounded nothing like Aaron. Spencer wasn't sure if that was a good thing, but neither woman would say if Sean's presence was a help or hindrance to Aaron.

The most he got was, "You have to meet him yourself."

Tonight was the first night he had free after finishing and turning in a two hundred page, typed report to Strauss. The look on her admin's face was worth the long hours, because Spencer could easily envision Strauss's reaction when it was handed to her. To celebrate, Spencer picked up Ethiopian takeout—something he'd promised the younger agent weeks ago—and headed over to Aaron's place. He had tried to call Aaron and then Sean beforehand, but both phones went directly to voice mail.

Spencer now walked down the hallway to Aaron's apartment, carrying a bag of food. He could hear raised voices coming from the agent's apartment and saw that the door was slightly ajar.

Years in the BAU demanded that he put the bag down, draw his revolver, and approach with caution, being ready to talk down or shoot the intruder. Instead, he shifted the bag to his other arm and palmed his gun as he got closer.

"Will you stop trying to goddamn control me!" shouted a younger male with a distinct Virginia drawl.

"I'm not fucking controlling you," Aaron snarled back. "For God's sake, you're throwing away four years of work! You have fifteen credit hours left to get your degree! What is so damn hard about sticking it out?"

"Fuck you, Aaron! Fuck you!"

"So you're just going to give up. And then you're going to come back here with your hand out after you blow through your trust fund and goddamn _beg _me to help you out!"

"Stop profiling me, Aaron!"

"If I profiled you, _really _profiled you, you'd be in that corner, crying like the immature, bratty child that you are!"

"You have no idea_—no idea—_what it's like to follow your dreams. Oh no! Because Dad was a lawyer and you were a lawyer, you think that I have to be a lawyer!"

"You need a goddamn real degree in a real goddamn field!"

"You know what? You're not Dad. You'll never be Dad!"

"And you should pray to every fucking deity you can think of that I'm not!"

Reid was at the door of the apartment, hand still on his gun. The door swung open, momentarily blinding him with the sudden light. He heard the younger man scoff, "There's a gun-wielding Mormon at your door, asshole."

Reid blinked.

Aaron's yelled, "Proselytizing Mormons don't carry guns, shithead!" carried down the hallway.

A young, tall blonde haired man came into view, motorcycle helmet in hand. He would have shoulder-checked Reid if Reid hadn't stepped aside. He watched as the guy marched down the hallway, oblivious to his surroundings. Reid turned toward the open door and took a tentative step towards it.

He knocked.

He wasn't expecting to hear, "I'm an atheist, I fuck men up the ass, and do you seriously believe a bunch of Israelites migrated from Khor Kharfot to America six hundred years before the birth of Christ? Or that Jesus popped by America on his sold out Resurrection Tour? C'mon!"

It took a moment for Reid to recover, because he never thought he'd ever hear _that _coming from the mouth of Aaron Hotchner.

A large shadow suddenly loomed in the doorway and twenty dollars was shoved in his face. Aaron's tone was even surlier. "Give me all your _Watchtowers _so you don't bother my goddamn neighbors!"

To which Spencer replied drily, "_Watchtower_ is a publication by the Jehovah's Witnesses. Mormons carry, well, the _Book of Mormon_."

There was a long moment of silence. The shadow became eerily still. Reid's eyes adjusted to stare at Aaron Hotchner dressed in basketball shorts and an oversized t-shirt. His left shoulder and arm were in an uncomfortable-looking, heavy-duty sling to keep it stabilized as it healed. Aaron's hair was messy and his beard was an uneven scruffy mess. It just wasn't a good look.

Aaron's mouth hung open. It flopped a few times. Finally, Aaron spoke, his voice an octave higher than it would normally be. "_Sir?_ You, ah, oh God … what did you … ah … hear?"

Spencer could help but laugh, "You're an atheist, I'm a lucky man, and apparently I dress like a member of the Mormon Church. Oh, and you know your Latter Day Saints theology."

Aaron closed his eyes. The humiliation was clear on his face. His right hand grabbed the door frame and he hung his head. "Sir … I want to …"

"_Spen_-sir," Spencer corrected, hoping that the delicate joke between them would help ease tension. "I brought dinner." He held up the bag.

It took a few moments but Aaron finally relented, shuffling over to his dining room table and pushing feebly at the mess on top of it.

Spencer glanced around as he closed and locked the door.

Unlike last time he'd been here, the place was decidedly messy. He could smell stale cigarettes and the funky waft of spilled beer. Field agents in the BAU who lived alone tended to be meticulous about their living spaces, mainly keeping it tidy so that they could better recognize if something was tampered with. Spencer noted the blankets and pillows on the main couch, the strewn DVD jackets on top of the table, and the lamp that used to be on the end table was now on the floor next to the table.

Quickly, Spencer walked over to the dining table and set the bag on it. "Sit down," he said softly.

Aaron obeyed, his shoulders slumped and looking every kind of miserable as he scratched as his beard. It didn't take much to clear off two spots on the table; they had dined in much smaller spaces and much dirtier surroundings while in the field.

He opened the bag and efficiently laid out dinner. Spencer was thankful he kept it simple: injera with sega wat, iab and kitfo. He knew Aaron began watching him as the takeout containers came out of the bag. It wasn't the traditional way of serving the cuisine; that would require a large platter and a basket for the injera. Still, Spencer did the best he could without (hopefully) making Aaron feel any worse.

He always knew that Aaron had a temper; all of them did. He knew it was ferocious and vicious just by the way the man had to rein himself back sometimes talking to UnSubs, especially towards abusive parents.

Spencer didn't utter a word as he grabbed a piece of injera, tore off a piece and handed it to Aaron, who accepted it. Aaron didn't move, just held the bread limply in his hand until Spencer got his own piece of injera, scooped up a bit of the sega wag, and popped it in his mouth. He chewed for a moment, watching as Aaron mimicked his movements. Spencer then realized that they didn't have any beverages.

"Tea in the fridge?"

"The pitcher on the left. The one on the right is some insidious concoction my brother insists is hip."

"He's twenty-two."

"And I'm apparently too goddamn old." Aaron let out a harsh breath. "I'm sorry, sir."

"Spen-sir," he called over his shoulder as he headed toward the fridge. If the rest of the house was a mess, the kitchen was a damn war zone. The fridge was filled with saucepans, Ziploc bags, and plastic containers. Spencer pulled out the pitcher of tea. He located two clean glasses. Bringing those and the tea back to the table, Spencer was thrilled to see Aaron eating.

The gauntness in his cheeks was appalling.

"What I said earlier …" Aaron began, sounding all kinds of miserable.

"Was a private conversation between family members," Spencer interrupted as he set the glass in front of the younger man and poured it full.

"It was inappropriate …"

"You're allowed to express yourself, Aaron."

And, damn, that got a reaction. Aaron stared at him, eyes blazing with that terrifying intensity of his. "You have no idea …"

"You mentioned profiling your brother until he was a mess in the corner," Spencer cut in blandly. "Well, I've got more experience than you do and have read your personnel file. We really don't need to go down that path, do we?"

Just like that, the fire left Aaron. He sulked, looking every bit the surly young man who had stormed out of his apartment. He ate in silence, although only reaching for the food when Spencer did.

While Aaron may have forgiven him for the reason he was shot, Spencer wondered if that same generosity would extend to the fact, "I had Garcia contact Sean."

"I'm not mad that you did it." However, Aaron tossed down the injera in disgust. He wiped at his chin whiskers with the napkin. "It's just that you don't know what a selfish, narcissistic prick he can be. You don't have crystal ball, sir. You're not always right."

"I never said I was," he countered.

"All you know about Sean is what I wanted you to know. I didn't want anyone to see how goddamn dysfunctional my family is." Aaron's scowl grew deeper. "Elle and Garcia have visited. Did they tell you Sean thought Elle was my housekeeper? He said that _to her face,_even though her sidearm was in plain sight."

"No, they didn't."

"I was waiting for her take his head off. She didn't." He picked up a piece of injera and stared it for a few moments. "I wished she had." He put the bread down. His voice grew even softer. "Don't even ask what he said about Garcia."

Spencer didn't because he could easily guess. He wanted to say something like, _It's not the worst she's heard,_ but didn't. He also didn't say, _Sean's young_ or _He'll grow out of it. _Yet now he knew why the women had been so cagey about Aaron's brother.

"I was so pissed, I had Garcia cut off my 'net so that Sean couldn't access porn on my laptop, his laptop, his smartphone or the goddamn gaming console he has hooked up to my TV." Aaron poked at the bread again. "There are things I _don't_need to know about my brother."

It teased an unexpected laugh out of Spencer. "Sean has no idea just who you have in your arsenal."

"Tech goddess, MMA fighter, Barbie girl with a ninja wit, salsa-dancing Latina," Aaron stated before finally dragging his gaze to meet Spencer's. "An adjunct professor at Georgetown who got my lazy-assed brother a two-week pass from classes, coursework and exams because I was shot." He glowered. "Sean's had everything handed to him on a goddamn silver platter since he was born. And you _add _to it. Apparently, Georgetown has such a hard on for you that they're kissing up to Sean because of this."

The smile dropped from Spencer's face; he was stunned by his subordinate's words, especially the harshness of his tone. He cringed, "Aaron, I had no idea …"

"You don't, and that's the shit of it," he spat and grabbed the bread again. "Sean thinks this is Spring Break."

"Aaron …"

"Fifteen credit hours from graduating," he went on, going after the stew with gusto. "Fifteen hours from graduating with a degree, acceptance letters from some of top law schools in the country, and he wants to quit." After a few more mouthfuls, Aaron went on. "Says he wants to go to goddamn _culinary _school."

And "culinary" was said with dripping disdain. Clearly that was what the argument was about. Aaron's anger wasn't necessarily directed at Spencer but that Sean was changing schools just short of obtaining his bachelor's degree. So Spencer sat back and listened, because he had a feeling he was the first person Aaron had ever confessed his true feelings about his brother to.

"You have no idea what it's like," Aaron continued angrily. "You know that our parents died when he was still in high school. Well, I busted my ass to get him a scholarship so he could use the trust fund for important things. He gave me this song and dance about wanting to go to law school and needing my help on the damned LSATs, so I paid for those courses so he didn't have to. Hell, I even footed the bill for the pre-test classes so he could get into a good school. He scored a 169 on the LSAT, which could probably get him into any top tier school except for Harvard and Columbia, so he asked for my help on the law school apps."

"The paperwork on the jet," Spencer murmured aloud, as he remembered some of the flights back from a case where Aaron would spend almost the entire flight scribbling on forms.

"Yes! I was dog-assed tired but I still did it!" Aaron nearly shouted. "He had his goddamn _pick_ of what school he wanted to attend. Stanford. Northwestern. Jesus Christ, even _Yale_ considered him! And then the little fuckwadpulls _this_ stunt! Fucking culinary school!"

He tossed down the bread and threw himself back in the chair, clearly forgetting about the gunshot wound. Aaron's face contorted in pain before he hunched over. Spencer reached forward, but stopped when Aaron waved him away.

It took a few moments before Aaron straightened, scowl still on his face as he stared at the food. Aaron went on bitterly, "Like I said, you have _no _idea what it's like."

"Why do you say that?"

"You don't have a brother."

"I have a half-brother," Spencer corrected as he picked up his glass of tea. He paused and then offered a lopsided smile. It was a story he rarely told, but knew that Aaron would understand. "Ten years after my parents divorced, my father remarried. He had son with his new wife. His name is Timothy.

"While Timothy wasn't the greatest at sports, he still got on every team he tried out for: basketball, baseball, football, track and field…. He graduated from high school at the appropriate age and went to every homecoming dance and all the proms—each time with a different girl. He married Alyssa when he was twenty-three and gave my father and his wife two grandchildren within the first three years they were married.

"Timothy also isn't the best businessman, which is why my father believes that a letter of recommendation from me would help boost my half-brother's security business in Vegas."

He spared a glance to Aaron, who watched him intently. Aaron asked, "Did you write it?"

"If Timothy wants a letter so badly, he'll have to ask me himself," Spencer stated, echoing the words that he spoke to his mother's grave. "Oh, and stop asking if I'm a real FBI agent." He shrugged. "I'd much rather a tech goddess, an MMA fighter, the Barbie girl with a ninja wit, a salsa-dancing Latina, and a former prosecutor who pulls off sniper shots after _being_shot as family than Timothy." He deliberately didn't mention Gideon, because he wasn't sure just how to describe his relationship with the man now. Instead, he shrugged. "So, I get it."

"You didn't play sports as a kid?" Aaron asked, sounding genuinely surprised.

"I preferred chess to Little League. Plus, I was twelve-year old child prodigy in a Vegas public high school," he answered. "Technically, I was a member of the men's basketball team because I could deduce shooting percentages and figure out the opposing teams' weaknesses. But no one wants to go to a dance or prom with a kid who hasn't hit puberty yet."

Aaron shook his head and snorted. "Okay, I'll shut up about my brother now."

"That was not my intention," he quickly said. "What I was trying to say is that I understand and you're welcome to talk about your brother." Spencer put his glass back down. "And if you want me to speak with him directly about the value of completing his bachelor's degree before going on to culinary school, I'd be more than happy to."

The younger man considered for a few moments, but then said, "He'll just blow you off."

"Unlikely," Spencer replied and then grinned. "After all, I'm a gun-wielding Mormon."

That teased a smile out of Aaron, and his dark mood seemed to lessen.

Spencer gestured to the food. "Do you want any more?"

"No, I'm good. Thank you. I'm sorry that I didn't beforehand. Thank you, that is. For dinner. Ethiopian, right?"

"Correct. I did promise you dinner, although it's taken a little longer to make good on it than I expected," Spencer stated as he stood up. He began putting away the foods and Aaron began to help. He waved away the injured man. "Let me take care of this."

"But you brought dinner …"

"I'm also the reason you were shot _and _the reason why your brother is here. I know it's not much, but I am trying to make it up to you."

"I said I wasn't mad."

"I realize that, but please. This will make me feel better."

Aaron frowned for a moment before nodding. "Okay."

"Thank you." Spencer finished packing up the leftovers and brought them over to the fridge. He cleared out a space and before turning his attention to the piles of dishes on the counter and in the sink. He wanted to clean those up as well, but knew that Aaron would be beside himself if he tried. Instead, he finished with the dishes used for tonight's dinner.

When Spencer came back to the table, Aaron was toying with the Velcro strap on his shoulder sling. Aaron had an air of vulnerability right now, one that Spencer wasn't sure how to deal with. So he sat in the chair and folded his hands on the table. He wasn't expecting Aaron to shyly reach out and brush the tips of his fingers.

"The dinner was to be in exchange for golf lessons," the younger man said almost to himself. He then looked up. "It's going to be a while before I can help you with that."

"You can always observe," Spencer replied. "While I wouldn't mind a hands-on lesson, having you watch the way I line up my putts wouldn't hurt. Maybe by the time you're healed enough to swing a club, I'll be able to putt properly."

Aaron laughed a little, moving his hand so that now his fingertips were resting lightly on Spencer's. He focused on their hands as he said, "Those clubs I was talking about are underneath my bed. I can't tell you how many times I've been tempted to hit my brother with them, and then thought, 'Wait! Those are for Spencer! I can't damage them!'"

The thrill of hearing his first name quickened Spencer's pulse as he laughed at Aaron's statement. He remembered what his mother always said: _Follow your heart._ He also recalled what David Rossi always said: _Follow your partner's lead. _It seemed Aaron was working up the courage to take his hand, so Spencer slid his so that it was a little more underneath Aaron's fingertips.

Aaron didn't move away. A good sign.

_What's the next move?_ Spencer wondered before admonishing himself. _Be patient!_

"Would you like to start tonight?" Aaron asked and then looked over to Spencer. There was that charming bashfulness in his eyes as he smiled just enough for his dimples to show. "I mean, you'd have to set everything up because of my shoulder, but it's not that difficult." His hand slowly crawled over Spencer's until it rested fully on top. Aaron chewed the inside of his cheek a little.

Spencer smiled as he maneuvered his thumb so he could give Aaron's hand a gentle squeeze. _Is Aaron really this forgiving? Where is his resentment?_ Yet Spencer knew he couldn't pass up this opportunity and all the layered meanings it might have. Aaron made the overture to him. Aaron made the offer to _him. _So it was only natural for him to reply with, "I would very much like to start tonight."

Aaron met his gaze again, earnest and eager and bashful at the same time. "The set is under my bed."

Spencer nodded and rose from his chair, reluctant to move his hand from Aaron's. As he passed by Aaron's chair, however, Aaron reached over with his right hand and caught hold of Spencer's wrist. He tugged and Spencer stopped. Still holding on, Aaron got to his feet, squeezing Spencer's wrist as he found his balance. They stood face to face, a half-foot separating them. From the look on the younger agent's face, Spencer knew Aaron was internally debating himself. He stayed still, curious (and hopeful) as to the man's next move.

Slowly, Aaron leaned forward, watching Spencer intently for any kind of reaction. When Spencer didn't move away, Aaron tilted his head slightly and then brushed his lips against his. The younger man pulled back, eyes wide and nervous.

Spencer simply nodded once and then gently returned the kiss as he closed his eyes. Aaron responded eagerly yet with reserve and Spencer kept himself in check. The chief hadn't kissed anyone with a full beard in years and he quickly remembered why he wasn't a fan of heavy facial hair. It was scratchy and he had no desire to nibble on Aaron's whiskered jaw. Aaron, however, seemed to have so such reservation. He trailed light kisses along Spencer's jaw, his beard tickling the sensitive skin as he went, until he nuzzled Spencer's ear.

The chief slid his hand along the younger man's shoulder before carding his fingers in Aaron's short hair. He placed his other on Aaron's hip, careful not to jostle the heavy brace. It was a very loose embrace, but one Aaron melted into. Spencer could feel the tension drain from the younger man as he relaxed. Aaron's good arm snaked around Spencer's waist, his hand splayed against Spencer's lower back. The younger man rested his forehead on Spencer's shoulder, as if soaking up the physical affection.

Spencer knew instinctively that there wouldn't be a golf lesson tonight. He could feel the weariness in Aaron's body and the need to simply be held. So he did. They remained like that, two men carefully entwined and breathing in sync.

When Aaron worked his way back up to Spencer's mouth, his tongue snaking out to caress Spencer's lips, Spencer obliged. Their tongues touched, just like the night on Aaron's couch when Spencer sat on the man's lap. He ran his hand through Aaron's short locks again, earning a moan.

Aaron shifted but then gasped and turned to the side. He muttered, "Damn it," as he dropped his good hand away.

Spencer ran his fingers along Aaron's whiskered jaw. "We should stop."

"I don't want to," Aaron replied petulantly.

"We should take it slow."

"At this rate, we'll never hit the greens, let alone a driving range."

Spencer laughed. "Oh, my dear Aaron, I fully plan on playing a full game with you, but I want you healthy."

"The doctor says I'll only be out for two months," He stated but then flashed that charming smile, complete with dimples. "Maybe I can return earlier if my supervisor gives me some encouragement."

"Golf lessons can't be exchanged for reinstatement."

"But I have a great stroke."

"I'm sure you do."

"It's so good, it will change your mind."

"Is that so?"

"Absolutely."

Then, Spencer's phone began ringing and Aaron stepped back. Spencer checked the caller ID—JJ—and instinctively knew it was about a case. "Go ahead, JJ."

"It's a bad one, sir," she stated without preamble. "Knoxville, Tennessee. Four undergrad women went camping over the weekend, and were supposed to be back on Monday but they never showed. A boater found one of their bodies on Douglas Lake two hours ago. Drexel from the Knoxville office want us there ASAP. He says the damage to the corpse wasn't done by fish or any wildlife."

"Have everyone meet at the airstrip. We'll do the briefing in air," he told her.

"I'll make the rest of the calls. See you there."

Spencer ended the call and saw the look of longing in Aaron's eyes. "I have to go."

"Where to?"

"Knoxville." He picked up the used glasses. The few minutes it took him to help clean up wouldn't hurt; he would still be the first person to the airstrip.

"I've got this," Aaron said, hand settling on his.

"Aaron …"

"Please."

For a moment, they just stared at one another. He could see the worry in Hotch's eyes, the worry that every team member got when they were down with an injury. "You're still part of this team, please believe that. So you don't have to come up with creative ways to return to the office, because I know almost all of them."

"You do?" Aaron asked, sounding a little surprised.

"I'm the first BAU agent to sign off on my own reinstatement paperwork," he admitted as he grinned as he set the glasses down. "After all, I _am_ a doctor and a doctor _can_provide a second opinion. When Rossi found out? Well, I learned a few more Italian curse words. Oh. And he made me retake my firearms and physical requalification exams. It wasn't fun."

For the first time that night, Aaron genuinely laughed. "So whatever I come up with will be pedestrian?"

"Oh, I'm sure it will be creative and legally sound," Spencer shot back with a smile. "But just because I don't have a JD doesn't mean I don't know the rules. I won't be as harsh as Rossi, but I won't let it slide."

"I'll remember that."

"I'll call when we get done with the case. Perhaps I can bring dinner over and …" he trailed off.

"I'll coach you on the putting green."

"Sounds like a plan."

And because he could, Spencer leaned in and shared one more kiss with Aaron, one that Aaron eagerly returned. When they broke away, Spencer grasped Aaron's right hand and squeezed it tightly. He refrained from saying anything else, worried that he would spoil the moment. Instead, he offered a soft smile which Aaron returned.

Aaron also squeezed his hand and lifted it slightly. For a moment, Spencer wondered if Aaron was going to do something silly and chivalrous like kiss the back of his hand. He didn't, and Spencer wondered why he felt a flare of disappointment.

"What is it that you always say to us?" Aaron asked rhetorically, his voice hushed. "Safe travels? Well. Safe travels, Spencer."

The unprompted use of his first name sent a shiver down Spencer's spine. He knew he was grinning stupidly, but he didn't care. "Thank you, Aaron."

"I mean it about the putting green."

Spencer smiled broadly. "I have no doubt."

"Be careful," Aaron added softly.

"I will. I promise."

Aaron then took a step back. Spencer reluctantly released his hand, knowing that their one-sentence conversation could keep going as they struggled with how to say goodbye. So Spencer nodded his head once and made his way to Aaron's door. He was surprised that the other man didn't follow up to see him out the door, but Aaron was probably feeling as awkward as Spencer about Spencer's departure.

With one last glance over his shoulder as he unlocked and opened the door, Spencer held Aaron's gaze and smiled again. Aaron returned the smile and waved a little. Laughing to himself about just how _cute_the scraggly agent looked, Spencer finally left the apartment, closing the door behind him.

As he walked down the hall, Spencer couldn't believe his luck. Maybe, after all these years of semi-disastrous relationships, he lucked upon one that could actually work.

God, Spencer wanted this to work with Aaron.

And he knew just by the expression on Aaron's face, the younger man wanted it to work as well.

At least, that's what Spencer hoped for.

* * *

><p>End of <em>All the King's Men.<em>

_A/N: One of the reasons Book 2 took so long is because I was retelling TFK in this 'verse. Perhaps I got carried away, but there were certain aspects of TFK that I really wanted to address. Yes, there is precious few true Hotch/Reid moments, but what I felt was very necessary is for them to build that trust between them._

_I am planning to continue to write in this verse, but future installments will not have the epic 25K word arc that "All the King's Men" has._


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